Fiery Angel
by Charles E Addams
Summary: Fire is more than death and destruction. It is light, warmth, and guidance for the most distant and coldest of us all. It binds lost souls together in its witches dance and brings forth feelings long disregarded by those who need them the most.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

 _Ashton Marie Knight_

On the upper left hand corner of the page in sloppy pen, eighteen year old Ash stares at her signature. Finals week has been excruciating, but this one will be the worse. Math and English, no problem. Science and Government? Child's play. But put a page of Spanish before the poor girl. No dice.

"I am going to die."

"No you're not, Miss Knight," The Colombian teacher smiles with a wag of her finger "Die, no. Fail, perhaps."

"Thanks, Missus Ramirez. Really encouraging."

She looks over at another girl, one with long brunette curls in a braid and glowing green eyes. Charity Evans laughs silently, holds her hands around her neck and mouths "choke"

Ash glares at her friend and mouths "bitch" before refocusing her attention on the paper. She moves her lips as she reads the Spanish questions and answers. Some of it is easy to understand, she sees the words for "man" and "woman" and translates easily. Now, what a man and a woman have to do with a word that can translate to years or assholes depending on the tilde-and she can't remember which-she has no clue.

"Ashton Knight, please report to the principal's office."

"Sweet baby Jesus, thank you!"

Ash grabs her messenger bag, writes NF on the topmost left corner of the paper and slams it on the teacher's desk with a joker's smile on her lips. Looking up from her novel, Missus Ramirez lets out a sigh of expectance. Ash feels the weight of the yin-yang hall pass in her pale, yellow tinted hand.

"First thing tomorrow morning, Ashton."

"Si, Senora."

Pushing a lock of her coal black hair away from her green-yellow eyes, Ash turns only to give Charity a wave and blow a snarky kiss before skipping from the room. Running her way down the hall to the only staircase in the three story building, she feels the floor slip from underneath her uniform shoes. Digging her heals into the tile floor, she grabs the nearest locker and holds.

She wobbles but gains her footing shortly. Deciding to walk the rest of the three feet to the top landing. She takes a seat on the railing, glad she wears the uniform black trousers and long sleeved shirt rather than the skirt. With a laugh, Ash pushes and slides down the circular railing to the first floor. When she sets foot on the first floor, she hears a disapproving scoff. "And your problem is?" She asks laying her hands on her hips.

Cary Clancy, not the most popular girl but the most feminine, clicks her sequined heals and zips her pink leather jacket. With a toss of her long blonde hair, Cary sneers.

"Could you at least try acting like a girl, Marie?"

"I don't go by my middle name, Cary," Ash snaps.

"Well, you have almost no boobs, you wear the boy's uniform and keep you hair super short, not to mention you are almost six foot tall . . ."

"I'm five eight!"

". . . There has to be _something_ to identify you as a girl."

"Actually there is. It's called gender identity, and I am a girl despite my vagina. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go the Principal Green's office." She thunks Cary's hair with the hall pass before huffing away red in the face. If she could look at herself, she would see her irises flashing gold and her eyes darkening. By the time she reached the door to Principal Green's office, she is calm and Cary is just a thing of the past.

Opening the oak door, she nods respectfully at the sight of the seventy year old principal. Her body stiffens at the sight of Police Captain George Collins and, more specific, the somber look on his wrinkled face.

"Afternoon, Cap'n Collins," She salutes and takes her seat in the bench. The air shifts as she looks to and fro between the men. She twiddles her thumbs as they converse softly. Then, as an epiphany strikes, Ash closes her eyes and stills her hands. She focuses on their voices, ignoring the hums of the lights and the clicks of the clock.

"I'm not so sure this is a good idea."

"What choice do we have? She's next of kin."

"She is mentally unstable! Look at her file, George. PTSD, a pyromaniac."

Ash grabs her head with her hands and screams, "Just tell me already!" The officer bites his lower lip and lowers his head. "What is wrong? What are you so afraid of? Me?"

"Ashton, I am sorry."

"For what? For Christ's sake, for _what_?"

"Your mother . . . there was a robbery . . . it has to be the same men from before. She was burned . . . she died." Ash is taken back. Her mind floods with dark memories, things she pushes back. A little boy crying, a man shouting. And fire. So much fire.

"Nononononono . . ." She rocks back and forth, feeling her heart race, her mind reel. Her vision swims, and she unconsciously digs in her trouser pocket for a cold, metallic object. She holds the monogrammed lighter inches from her face and ignites it.

"Miss Knight, what are you doing?"

"Daddy, why are they hurting you? Daddy, Daddy . . . Alex stopped crying. Daddy! Gah!" She drops the lighter which extinguishes. She falls on all fours, grabbing her ribs as she feels a thousand daggers pierce her heart. Ash crawls forward, feeling her father's lighter under her palm, but the pain doesn't stop.

Another memory appears. On from when she was a little girl of a doctor explaining to her mother about how Ashton was born with a weak heart, and how too much strain can be fatal. The heart attack knocks the breath from her lungs, and the last thing she remembers is the sound of her body hitting the floor.

#

Sound is the first thing she regains. For a moment, it is not understandable, almost like it is in a foreign language. Then it clears, and she focuses as her other senses return. She reaches with her hearing, and the words flow.

"Is he . . . dead?"

"It's hard to say. I wonder what happened."

"It has to be the ghost! He killed Joseph Bouquet just the other day, remember?"

"Little Giry you are a paranoid one."

"Miss Daaé, you are not thinking clearly. He is dressed like a worker, perhaps the ghost was angry at him."

Ash shifts her foot to make sure she can move at all. She stands hearing two bodies scurry away as she wipes her eyes. She opens one and sees her father's lighter in her hand. Stuffing it in her pocket, Ash opens the other eye to locate her messenger bag and finds two girls huddling around it.

"Uh . . . may I have my bag, please?" She holds a hand out with a gentle smile to try and relax the girls. One is maybe about sixteen years old, her hair is in platinum blonde spirals down her back, her skin a creamy pink and her eyes a sapphire blue. The other is small of body, though she might be the same age as the former. Her skin seems to be pulled over her bones, ghastly pale. Her hair and eyes are inky in color. She is the one to stand and bring Ash her bag. "Thank you, dearie."

"You are welcome, monsieur. May I ask whom I am addressing?"

"Ashton Knight, though everyone calls me Ash. And you are?"

"Meg Giry, dancer and chorus girl for the Corp De Ballet." The Corp De Ballet rings a very low bell in Ash's mind. Charity and her many ramblings included the mention of said Corp, including the wish to join when they graduate at the end of the term. However, that is all she can recall at the time. She scratches her head and looks around.

They appear to be in the wings of a theatre, catwalks and rope and sets as far as the eye can see. Actors, dancers, and fly workers walk around, not paying any attention to the trio off on their own. Though preoccupied, she does faintly hear someone speak and turns to the blonde girl.

"I beg your pardon, but what?"

"I said, you seem familiar, Monsieur Knight. Have we met before?" The blonde walk forward and stand beside Meg. Ash sees their matching tutus and pointe shoes and assesses that they are both ballerinas.

"I don't think so. I would recognize someone who looked like you, miss . . ."

"Christine Daaé."

Another bell. Visions of a brunette spinning and staring in Ash's eyes, the lines of the wig and the microphone obvious and her dyed red hair sticking out. A play, that's right. Freshman year there was a play, a musical. Ashton auditioned for the female lead, and was given the male lead for her low voice. The female character's name? Christine Daaé.

"A pleasure, Miss Daaé. I appear to be very, very lost."

"You must be looking for Moncharmin and Richard, the managers. We need a new stagehand, or even a background character." Meg smiles. Ash likes her smile. It seems ill-used and reserved for those she believes deserves it.

"Stagehand? Shifting scenes, preparing costumes, and adjusting lights. Yes, sounds doable. Now, where can I find Moncharmin and Richard?" Ash does not feel comfortable in this situation. She has no idea where she is, why they are addressing her as "sir", and furthermore why are they speaking French? Nothing adds up.

"Well, usually . . ."

"Christine, Meg, why are you flirting with the staff?" Another ballerina, a slender woman with dark hair and fiery blue eyes stomps forward and pushes her way between Ash and the girls almost protectively. "We have Faust tomorrow and Carlotta is throwing a fit that we can't continue rehearsal."

"We're sorry, Sorelli. This man, he is looking for the managers to apply for a stagehand job."

"Ha! A stagehand?" Sorelli faces Ash and moves her eyes up and down Ash's body. Seeming to like what she sees, Sorelli shrugs. "Perhaps. Honestly, darling, all you have to do is go to their office every other Friday to collect your pay. They don't notice new faces and will believe you if you say you work for them."

"Really. That's perfect then. Thank you, Miss."

"You are welcome, Monsieur . . . ah, your name?"

"He is Ash Knight."

"I was asking _him_ ," She snaps.

"Meg is right, though. Ashton Knight, at your service. One last question and I'll get out of your hair. Where can I sleep?"

"There is an inn just down the road . . ." Christine starts.

"Nonsense! There is an empty dressing room at the end of the farthest hall just south of here. It is reserved for a new musician, but after the continuing _accidents_ we will never replace the pianist."

"Pianist?" Ash drops down and searches through her bag. She pulls out a large red folder and opens it gleefully. "I play. I have since I was a child. Now, it will take me a while to learn the music for your production . . ." She flips through the pages and Sorelli lays a finger on one page titled "The Jewel Song".

"It seems you already have."

"This? I learned it three years ago. _The Damnation of Faust_ , I believe. I have all the music, but it is practically memorized. Why, is that what you are performing?"

"Exactly right. Christine, Meg, go back to rehearsal. I will escort the young man to Moncharmin and Richard for an audition."

#

After landing the job, Ash is given an advance to purchase anything she might need for her room. She created a story, a house fire that killed her family and destroyed all her possessions as she made her way to France. She also said that she had no belongings with her because they were on a separate ship, which sank. Fortunately for her, they believed the bullshit that flowed from her lips. Even more, they were so impressed with her playing, Richard offered her a contract for a full three seasons.

So even though she still has no clue how she arrived in Paris, she at least has a flow of . . . francs? Counting the notes, Ash ponders on the currency. Europe is on Euros, not francs. Oh well, after she hails a cab, she can think on it. She looks up from the sidewalk to the road. Cobblestones and carriages left and right. Ash wipes her forehead. _I'm not just in the wrong place,_ Ash scurries around and grabs a newspaper right from the hands of a boy. _I'm in the wrong time!_

The paper reads August 13th, 1880.

"Monsieur, are you going to pay for that?"

"What? Oh, sorry kid. Here, take the paper, I just needed the date." The boy is dirty, skinny, and pale. With a heavy heart, Ash hands ten francs to the boy who smiles with black teeth and runs away, shouting a thanks over his shoulder as he meets a begging woman Ashe assumes is his mother.

Smiling like a lunatic, Ash hails a carriage and says, "To the shops, please."

#

Ash returns to her new room with six black trousers, six white shirts, six vests of varying dark colors, a brush, hair tonic, and zero idea of how she travels not only to another country but back in time as well. She hangs the clothing in an oak wardrobe, making obscure comments about searching for Narnia, when she sees something on the vanity.

She stares at the parcel, a letter lying flat on top. She lifts the letter and runs her finger over the red wax seal. It's shaped like a skull, and a new memory arises. In the musical, they used laminated paper, plastic seals, and the letters sealed with magnets. Her lines were always prewritten on the paper, so she would just recite them.

Hearing the paper rip, Ash knows that this is not a fake, and she pulls out the note. Closing her eyes tight, she chews her lower lip and sighs. The note is written in French, a hasty French, but still French. Ready to rip the paper to ribbons, Ash holds it in both hands right as the letters shake and rearrange. Focusing, Ash realizes that whatever mysterious force brought her here is kind enough to let her be able to communicate.

In handwriting worse than she could ever manage, Ash begins to read.

 _Monsieur Knight,_

 _It is my deepest pleasure to welcome you to the Paris Opera House. Though you have impressed me with your audition, I do question your abilities. Unfortunately my new managers have very little skill in the arts. So, here is my proposition. Tomorrow night you will perform perfectly, not a single misplaced note, and if you meet my expectations, you can stay. If not, I suggest the flies. I have acquired for you a suit worthy of the opera you will be performing._

 _O.G._

"O.G." She whispers setting the paper aside. She unties the black ribbon and removes the lid. The jacket and trousers are a blood red, the lapel a shimmering gold. The shirt is black and the vest a vibrant white. There is another card, with one word written in red ink.

 _Mephistopheles._

Ash places the outfit on the bed, pondering on what her next move should be. The coincidences between her situation and the musical she performed in are too numerous to count. The girl, the place, the time, and now a note signed O.G. Facing the floor length mirror to the right of the vanity, she knows there is one other thing to test for.

Walking slowly, Ash stares at her eyes in the mirror until she is almost two inches away. Shaking, she lays one finger against the glass. She looks carefully at the tip. There is no space between her finger and its reflection. This is a two-way mirror. From above her head, two yellow orbs gaze down at her unsuspecting face.

They take in all the similarities in appearance, and realize that this can be quite the opportunity. This young man seems to be the perfect tool. Musical, strange looking, mysterious origin. Turning away from the glass, the orbs make their way down five cellars. A plan is forming, one that will shake the Paris Opera.

Meanwhile, Ash is sitting on the bed in her shirt and underwear. She has covered the mirror with a spare blanket, her mind reeling with the impossibility before her. Her hair is sticking out on all sides, though that is not helped as she continually rakes her fingers through. She rocks back and forth, her breathing deep and hard.

She needs to relax, to get her mind off her situation. Only one thing comes to mind, a song, one from the musical. She keeps going back to the damn musical, nothing can stop it. Opening her mouth, she starts to sing, unaware that she is still being listened to.

#

Christine wanted to ask the man if he needed anything else. Ashton seems like a friendly face, sweet demeanor and cocky attitude. She can't help but feel just a little attracted to him. But then, as she was about to knock, his voice comes through the door. It was quiet yet clear. Christine leans against the wood, closing her eyes.

His voice floats through the air as the lyrics poor from his mouth. Chills run through her body as realization hits her. Panic floods her heart and she runs from his door. _It just can't be! It can't be!_ She makes it to her bed right as Sorelli makes bed checks.

#

Ash falls back in the bed and covers her body. Tears flow down her cheeks as she blows out the candle. She curls in the fetal position, closing her eyes tight. She thinks of the suit hanging in the wardrobe, of who it has to be that gave it to her. In her dreams she relives the Freshman musical, from start to finish. The characters have been replaced with the people she has met, and in her mind she accepts what has happened.

She is living the plot of The Phantom of the Opera.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Ash awakens with a start. The knock on the door does nothing to calm her fragile nerves. Covering her chest, she asks who it is. A male voice answers Philippe de Chagny. Ash chuckles at the slight femininity in his voice and asks a moment to put on a robe. For a moment she remembers that she doesn't have a robe, but apparently the Opera Ghost decided to make one more delivery during the night.

She slips on the black fabric and ties the red belt, moving her eyes to the mirror. Sure enough, the blanket has shifted slightly. As an afterthought, she pulls up her school trousers before telling him to enter. Taking a seat before the vanity, Ash watches as the door slowly opens to reveal not one but two men.

The first man, one she suspects to be the Philippe de Chagny, has graying blonde hair and a little moustache, his suit is green with silvery trim in a floral pattern. The second has short brown curls and a curled moustache. His suit is blue and simple in design. He does not seem as excited as the other man to be here.

"Hello, there, gentlemen." She greets with a closed lipped smile. The blonde man bows, the brunette follows.

"Bonjour, Monsieur Knight. Sorelli has told me all about you and your magnificent playing. I am Philippe, Count de Chagny. This is my brother, Raoul, Viscount de Chagny. We simply wish to welcome you to the Paris Opera with warm arms."

"A pleasure, sir." Ash looks in the attached mirror and turns violently. "Holy shit, I am a mess."

"At least you're honest," Raoul laughs positioning behind Ash in the looking glass. He tilts his head and shakes it. "Actually, you are rather dashing in comparison to the Americans that come to work here. Your hair is wild, though." Ash grabs one of the many curls that protrude from her scalp with a sigh.

"May I have a moment to freshen up? I need to be ready for rehearsals."

"Of course." Philippe nods at Raoul and they exit. Ash lays the robe on the back of the seat. She examines her reflection, slight bags from her wild night under her eyes, her hair ridiculously curled, but that is what the tonic is for. She straightens her clothes and begins the laborious and painful task of combing her rat's nest.

#

Hearing the beautiful music with Carlotta's voice was enough to make Ash shake in anger. Margarita is a soprano, of which she obviously is. However, not only is she almost thirty and performing in a teenager's role, her voice has way too much vibrato, like she is forcing herself to sound more operatic than necessary. The worst part? Carlotta would attempt to flirt with Ash when the conductor was not running the whole company.

She sits for an hour at the piano after everyone has gone for the afternoon for preparations. She lets in slow, even breaths. In a trance, she lays her fingers on the keys and begins to play and sing. She performs for no one the song she sang to sleep. From her lips, The Music of the Night flows with hypnotic passion, and a shadow from above stares in awe. And from the stage, a young girl feels her heart soar with every note.

This is her affirmation. With a wide smile, Christine prances away from him. It has to be him, the voice behind the mirror. Her Angel of Music.

#

Searching for reprieve, Ash asks where the quietest spot in the opera is. Many would suggest the fourth cellar, in the far corner. They would joke that that was the best chance to see the Opera Ghost. Asking for a place with light and a breeze, one dancer says that the roof is often breezy and has one of the best views in Paris.

After many flights of stairs, Ash finds a solid metal door. She tests the handle, and is let down when it down not move. She is about ready to head back down the stairs when there is a click from the keyhole. Pulling on the handle again, she is surprised when it just flies open and she is bathed in sunlight.

Instantly, she is awed by the sheer beauty surrounding her. In the mid-afternoon sky, the golden dome of the opera house shines. Atop the dome, is a gilded angel that seems to guide passersby to the opera, almost luring them in with his hypnotic stare. As he beckons, the shadows around his base shift. A cold northern wind blasts, knocking the air from Ash's lungs, pushing her to a shadowed corner far from the warm sunlight. She manages to stop before entering, but that does not stop her from being frozen by the glowing yellow orbs almost a foot over her head.

"Hello there, Monsieur Knight."

"Hello . . ."

"Come now, dear boy, there is no need to be shy."

"I am not shy, just," Ash wraps her fingers around the lighter still carefully nested in her pocket. "Just safe, is all. Your reputation precedes you, Ghost. What will the Bouquet incident . . . and countless others . . . One can never be too safe."

"Never hurts to be safe, I understand. All the same, I would appreciate a bit of trust, so keep your hands where I can see them," A black clad figure comes from the shadows. In the finest dress clothes, a skeletal man emerges, his cape moves silently with the wind, his hood shadowing his face. But his eyes are ever watchful, so Ash complies. "Thank you."

"Do you have a reason for coming to see me, Ghost?" Ash asks, her teeth grinding as she fights not to set him on fire. In the musical, the ghost was nothing more than a man. She's willing to wager it is the same case here. Then, reconsideration. If he truly is a ghost, better not to risk it.

"I have an opportunity for you that would be foolish to overlook. In exchange for your loyalty and services, you will receive triply your current hundred francs a week pay, immunity from being fired and from being at the butt of one of my little . . . excursions. As for loyalties, you will deliver my notes, deal with the more intimate parts of my plans, and keep the musicians from sounding completely abhorrent."

"Ah, your dirty work, eh? Not meaning to sound rude, but what if I refuse your _generous_ offer?"

"You will not leave this roof with your life."

"You wouldn't dare. Moncharmin and Richard would become suspicious if someone they hired yesterday, literally, just disappeared." Ash gives a sly smile and a raised brow. "Eliminating that option."

"Really?" The Ghost tilts his head, eyes twinkling in mischief. "Accidents can, and will, happen at any given time. You may be aware of the "suicide" of Joseph Bouquet. Then the rope holding the scenery aren't entirely stable, one might say extremely dangerous. They could fall at any minute." He leans forward to make their twin eyes level. "Perhaps even the minute you are walking below."

"Touché. When do I begin?" He lays a cold hand on her shoulder.

"Today. I have plans for the opera tonight, and they cannot fail. I will give you the poison you will require. Simply slip it in Carlotta's drink and everything will fall into place." The Ghost places a small vial in her hand, the liquid the color of berries. Ash holds the glass to the light.

"Poison Carlotta, are you insane? The managers will lose their shit if they find out."

"It is not hazardous to her health. It is a remedy to steal her singing voice."

"If you can call it singing." He lays a hand on her shoulder and begins to squeeze. Ash feels her bone pop and hisses in pain. "What the hell?" She claws at his hand, scratching the leather glove.

"You better not fail me. Any failures will make the deal void, and you will be eradicated." He removes his hand and steps back into the shadows. "Have a pleasant evening."

#

"It is made from honeysuckle nectar and water from the springs deep in the American wilderness. It is very expensive, and I believe, because of your beautiful voice, that no other deserves this rare remedy." Ash pours the poison in a glass of water, watching from the corner of her eyes as Carlotta stares in wonder. Ash thinks about what Carlotta believes she is seeing.

A tall, handsome-maybe-American man present to her a potion that will enhance her already angelic voice tenfold. _And then_ , Ash thinks while stirring the mix with a spoon, _she believes she will get in my pants for a wild night. Actresses, the Sex Maniacs of any time._

"Now simply drink and wait thirty minutes give or take for it to take full effect." Ash holds it out for Carlotta to take, but the woman is hesitant. Though she is the classic ideal of Spanish beauty, her flat green eyes spark with nerves, her red lips tremble, and her caramel skin shakes. Ash wonders if, by some strange force, Carlotta was frightened or her-or him, rather.

"And you are certain this will work?"

"Many of the Scots-Irish back home recommend it. They say the Indian folk concocted it for their strange little ceremonies. Nothing to be fear."

"Well . . . alright." She takes the glass and sips it down. With a blush, she thanks Ash with a curtsy and excuses herself to get ready for the evening. Ash, taking three steps back, breaks into a run when Carlotta is nowhere to be seen.

Oh there will be hell to pay when the woman realizes she was double crossed. Sadly, as she thinks about it, there could be a chance of Carlotta becoming an amazing singer. If only she would just . . . not try as hard, strange as it is to say.

Ash is almost to her room when she must skid to a halt. Before her is a dark skinned man in a white turban and violet robes waltzing about the foyer. He is not blocking her way to her room by any means. There's just . . . something off about him. He acts as though he is searching for something. Or even someone. Shaking down her wild nerves, Ash descends the marble steps with dignity.

When he turns, his eyes widen. It is almost like he thinks Ash is who he is looking for. Which is preposterous, Ash has never seen him around the opera or anywhere else in Paris over the two days she has been there. All the same, his eyes lose their recognition when she walks by him with a sneer. He scratches his beard and takes one last look at her.

"Erik?" The Daroga whispers. He is confused. It is impossible for that to be Erik, and he is aware of that. All the same, those eyes, the skin, the hair. It cannot be mere coincidence. Like his father always said, "There are no coincidences," and the Daroga walks away.

#

With only a few hours before the performance, Ash decides what she needs more than anything is a nice, warm bath. There is a door near the vanity, but she just thought originally that it was a storage closet or something equally unimpressive. She decides closer inspection is required.

The door opens inward, revealing a brass tub, a fire place, and faucet for water collection. The room is illuminated only by the light from the bedroom, she lights the nearest candle and gathers her robe and undergarments. She will wear her bra, but something tells her the purchase of some bandages to wrap around her breasts will be best to keep up the male façade she was put into.

Lighting the fireplace, Ash begins to fill the copper tub and thanks God for this opportunity.

#

Ash has to admit, the suit makes her look rather sexy. The red and black fits her pale skin perfectly, almost enhancing it. The knee high boots press down on the fabric, not enough to wrinkle, and make her legs seem longer. Using the tonic, she slicks her hair, parting to the right, with curls at the tips. Oh how she wishes she has a camera. She sees one last item in the box, a pair of black leather gloves and slides them on her hands.

She takes one last glance in the mirror with a wink. Collecting her music, Ash turns on her heels and exits the room, floating on air.

In a matter of minutes she is taking her seat at the piano, feeling the eyes of the others pound on her. They begin the overture, waiting patiently for the performance to start. Ash looks under the curtain, from her angle she can make out legs, all of them rushing. She sees the shoes that belong to the Margarita actress freeze right behind the curtain.

The girl bends on her knees and looks under the curtain, her blonde braid touching the floor. Ash is shocked to see Christine Daae meet her gaze. Not knowing how to react, Ash smiles reassuringly and winks. Christine is young, beautiful, Ash is certain she will do well. Blushing, Christine flees from the scene right as the curtain rises.

#

The audience is roaring. Christine was amazing, no spectacular. The entire orchestra rises in applause, but none as excited as Ash. Calming, Ash sees Christine sway and is on the stage right as the girl collapses from her success. The curtain falls and the other actors gather around Ash and Christine. While everyone else panics, Ash takes Christine in her arms and asks Meg to escort her to Christine's dressing room.

The girl's room is decorated in pink and white, but it is simply done. A vanity, a floor length mirror, a wardrobe, a bathroom door, a bed. It is simply a feminine version of Ash's, and she lays the girl on top of the comforter. Going through the motions, Ash removes her shoes and takes her hair down. She is about ready to loosen Christine's corset when a loud cough is sounded.

"What are you doing to Miss Daae?"

"Making her comfortable, of course," Ash turns to see the younger Chagny brother standing in the threshold, arms crossed, eyes flaming in anger. "Corsets are cruel and constricting, we are lucky she did not pass out from exhaustion mid-performance. So, I shall remove it, cover her with a light blanket, and leave the room." Ash unlaces the device and lays it on the end of the bed.

"That is enough, young man."

"Not until she is comfortable, sir. I mean her no harm." There is a white blanket to Christine's left, so she leans over Christine's body and pulls it over her. Moving a lock of hair from Christine's eyes, Ash turns violently and gets two inches from Raoul's face. "There, I'm done. You're coming with me." She grabs his jacket, and laughs at his attempts to break free.

Ash softly closes Christine's door, feeling a rose carved into the metal handle. Raoul is shouting quietly at her, about the audacity and utter rudeness of her actions, and how dare she treat him like second rate garbage.

"Just who do you think you are?" He remarks. Ash lets out a calming breath, grabs the man by the collar, and lifts him off the ground, making them eye level.

"I think I am going to kick your foppish ass! I can tell you have feelings for Christine. You know, that does not bother me. But, I do have a problem with men who think any other man is a threat to his conquests. Christine is a friend, a sister even, and barely so, seeing as how I have been here for two whole days." With a cheeky smile, Ash drops him on his ass and bows. "Have a pleasant evening, Viscount."

Ash clicks her heals and walks down toward her room. Halfway there, she starts to laugh, tears flowing down her cheeks. The one from the musical is ten times more threatening than this kook, and more attractive as well. She had her hand around the handle when she feels it, the same rose carved into Christine's door.

"Can't be a coincidence. Silly Ghost . . ."

Sorelli is sitting at her vanity, wearing her villager costume with the sleeves down to below her shoulders. Her long hair is down, her lips painted in red. She bats her eyes and waves Ash in. Ash, trying to understand what is before her, closes the door and leans against it, afraid to move forward. Something dark blossoms in her chest.

"All right, I will come to you." Sorelli stands with her hands on her hips. "I must stay, you impressed me tonight, Monsieur Knight." She runs a finger down Ash's face and pulls lightly on the jacket, coaxing in down off Ash's shoulders. Her breathing becomes shaky.

"Sorelli, what are you doing?"

"Hmm . . ." She taps her finger on Ash's lips in consideration and answers, "You." With passion in her eyes, she grabs the collar of Ash's shirt and plants her lips on Ash. The woman runs her fingers though Ash's hair, melting against the body of the man she lusts after.

Ash nearly moans against Sorelli before the realization of just how dangerous this situation is comes to her. Oh how she hates it. Ash grabs Sorelli's shoulders and pushes her away. Sorelli steps back, not shocked per say, more confused than anything. She watches as the man wipes his mouth in horror, body convulsing. Ash glares and Sorelli lets her arms fall to her side.

"What the hell was that?"

"I . . . I though . . . do you not like women?" _That's the problem._

"Sexuality has nothing to do with any of this. You kissed me, you don't even know me how can you kiss me?" Ash jerks her jacket from the floor and tosses it on the bed before sitting down beside it, head in hands. She growls in distain.

"I just . . . other men, they . . . they just want the sex . . . they don't care about me or what I feel or . . ." She walks shamefully to the door, opening it. With sorrow in her eyes, Sorelli smiles politely. "You're different from the other men, Ashton Knight. It is a good different, though. Thank you." She leaves.

Ash, without a second thought, rushes forward and locks the door behind the woman. She is so frustrated. Sorelli is beautiful, intelligent, and talented. Yet, she wanted Ash-no, Monsieur Knight-over all the men she has known for years. And sex in this time is so dangerous anyway, no birth control, no condoms, more STIs than imagined. And if Sorelli discovered what Ash really is . . .

Needless to say it was a close call on all accounts.

Ash undresses, hanging the suit back in the wardrobe, and removes a white shirt for bed. She blows out every candle, humming like the night before. Not Music of the Night, but Masquerade. It feels fitting. Hiding her real identity to avoid becoming an outcast or worse. She climbs in under the covers, exhaustion catching up with her.

"Hide your face so the world . . . will never . . . find you." She hugs the pillow and closes her eyes. Sleep does not come, but the feeling of eyes creeps on her like wildfire. Wrapping the comforter around her shoulders, Ash sits up and yawns.

"Ghost, is that you?"

"Indeed."

"Where are you?"

"Sitting at the vanity. You have excellent taste in hair tonic, Monsieur."

"Thank you," She says through a yawn. "Please be quick, I'm falling asleep sitting here."

"Of course, lad. I wish to tell you how magnificent you were tonight. You exceeded all expectations I had of you. Yet, this will be short lived. Carlotta is going to return tomorrow, she has rejected every kind attempt I have made to convince her otherwise. Now, the poison won't work and I highly doubt she'll let you within two meters of her."

"Ah, yes. She fell for that old trick easily. I don't know what you expect me to do about her."

"First, deliver a note to the managers undetected. Those cowards will listen enough to talk to her. Second, hiding her throat spray will anger her. If you want to, there is one other thing that might help." Ash feels the air shift, a breeze brush past her left shoulder and the bed creak under the Ghost's weight.

"Uh . . ."

"I happen to know that Carlotta has been using opioids to lose weight so she can fit in the younger women's costumes. Take than, there is no chance the she-devil will come. Also, please remove the cover from the mirror, you're making me nervous."

"Funny."

She gets no response, and the weight is gone from the bed. Rolling her eyes, Ash falls backward on the bed. Within moments she is asleep, her dreams searching for answers to everything around her. But mostly they think on the Ghost. She dreams of what she wore in Ninth Grade, and how the mask covered half her face. She dreams of what she saw on the roof, and her dreams compare them.

Her dreams deduce that this Opera Ghost is more dangerous than what she portrayed on stage. The only problem is that once morning comes she won't remember a thing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

She dresses all in black before the sun has a chance to rise. Ash knows it is risky to be caught in a hoodie, but what other choice does she have? The hood will keep her face obscured, leading to a lesser chance of detection . . . or at least that is what she hopes will happen. For extra protection, she takes a slip of black cloth and ties it to cover the lower half of her face and wears her gloves to keep from leaving fingerprints.

She doubts that they can use fingerprinting in the 1880s, but it is better safe than sorry.

She takes the notes from the vanity, noticing one that is not sealed beside them. It reads, _"The roses with guide you."_ Nothing more. Ash slips this into a drawer and heads out the door. As she creeps down the hall, she ponders on the meaning behind the "roses".

To reach the offices of Armand Moncharmin and Firmin Richard, she'll have to go to the third level of the opera house, while remaining undetected by the janitorial workers and the stagehands that may be wondering about drunkenly. Ducking behind a statue, she avoids being seen by a vomiting cleaning lady, but finds herself in a painful position against the wall with the shaft of something on the statue against the small of her back.

 _Christ Almighty, learn to hold your liquor, you lightweight._ Forced against the stone, she sees something strange from the corner of her eye. Painted lightly in red, the outline of a rose bud and stem. Keeping balance with her left hand and both feet, she reaches with her right hand and runs her finger from the stem up, feeling along the slight crevice that is along it. Touching the topmost petal, she feels a circular bulge and presses it.

She hears a light click, and a thin slab of the marble going in and slide behind the rose. "The roses will guide you. Sly bastard." She slips though, the door sliding closed behind her. Ash lets out a groan after she is plunged into pitch black. The only thing visible, if she could see herself, would be her eyes, which glow unnaturally. "I could go for some illumination," Ash muses taking out her lighter and clicking it.

There are multiple ladders, each labeled with a different location's name. One reads Box Five, one The Pianist's Room, and another Her Room. "Her Room? Peculiar." The two remain to the right. One reads Offices and the last one says Toad's Room. Laughing at the bold titles, Ash thinks on where to go first.

#

There has not been a moment of silence since noon. Ash hides away in her room, her face locked in a pleased smile as Carlotta rants back and forth throughout the opera house, screaming about how everyone is against her and how dare the Ghost try and tell her what to do. Ash, now with bandages around her breasts and wearing nothing else but her trousers, rolls from the bed and stands straight.

She hears a knock at her door and forces her body against it.

"Monsieur Knight?" A male voice penetrates the door. Ash thinks for a moment when it hits her. Raoul, the Count's little brother. Muttering a curse under her breath, Ash lunges to the wardrobe and yanks a shirt off the hanger. "Sir?"

"Come on in," She gasps pulling her arms through the sleeves. Raoul enters right as she buttons the bottom of the shirt. "Hello, sir. How can I help you today?" Raoul rakes his hair back, his eyes downcast. He meets the strange eyes of the newcomer when he sees a peculiarity on the young man.

 _Bandages around his pectorals. An injury? A deformity?_ His mind swims for a moment before focusing on Ash, who has a brow cocked in confusion as he finishes with his shirt. Ash sits while Raoul finds his voice.

"I have come to apologize for my behavior the other night, Monsieur Knight. It was childish of me, and completely uncalled for."

"Okay then . . . you are forgiven. I understand your actions, though. There was never a need to apologize, though I imagine a man of your standing can't afford any enemies, even small ones." Ash grins wickedly as the eyes of her visitor widen ever so slightly. "Let's just say there is no gain or loss in our relationship, Viscount." Ash's eyes move to a bottle on the dressing table. It is square in shape, a long neck, and the liquid is as addictive as cocaine.

Ash takes the bottle of opium from Carlotta's dressing room and uncorks it. She takes a small sniff, wrinkling her nose, and seals it. She puts it in a drawer, noticing the curiosity in Raoul's eyes. "Don't ask what you do not need to know, Viscount. Is there another reason for this intrusion?"

"No, sir."

"Then, if you would, get out."

Raoul reads the American's face perfectly. He sees anger, distain, and utter hatred of the Viscount. In fact, Raoul knows that the feeling the American has for him is mutual, as he feels nothing for the black haired foreigner. With a respectful bow, Raoul exits the room, closing the door silently when he wishes to do nothing less than slam it in that arrogant prick's face.

Ash laughs lowly, waiting a few minutes for the Viscount to walk away before exiting herself. She wants a moment alone, and she feels a visit to the roof will be beneficiary to her mental health.

#

She sings the reprise to All I Ask of You. There is no reason for it, only the impulse to sing what goes along with the setting around her. Up here, she feels no eyes, senses nothing as she rushes to the corner of the roof for the climax of the scene. Below, she watches the carriages and horses, the wandering wastrels and the aristocratic masses.

"All these people . . . and they have no idea what is happening here. All but one." She imagines the photograph of Gaston Leroux, the man whose work the musical will be based on. The novel will be published in 1901 here, 1911 is the U.S. He has curly brown hair, and a beard, and round glasses like John Lennon and Harry Potter. He will know everything after it has happened.

Everything, and now her. Or maybe not her, she thinks after a moment. After all, she never once considered the idea that this is merely a hallucination of a stressed out brain. This could all be in her head, something implanted there by Charity's constant rambling about this story and nearly every detail.

Details that she never once took the time to memorize. How could she be imagining a story she never took the time to learn? No. No, he will learn of her. She will make certain of that.

Hours pass, and she realizes that she must get ready for the next performance. No Carlotta, no worries. This will be an enjoyable evening.

#

Oh how wrong she was.

Carlotta performs, much to Ash's complete dismay. She imagines what doom awaits her when something from above shifts. She curses and bangs on the piano, gaining the attention of the orchestra and the actors.

"The chandelier!" She screams, something hard hitting the back of her head. She sees the crystal start to fall and hears the many shrieks of fear before everything fades away.

#

"You failed me, Ashton Knight." The Ghost circles the young man, admiring the work he has done. Ashton is suspended in air, a noose around his pale neck. Ashton's arms are tied to his torso, his legs tied together. In a moment, the Ghost will kick the chair from underneath the poor, pathetic American and remove the constricting ropes, leaving the fool to die.

Two suicides for the opera, enough to scare any toad away, especially once she learns her mother was killed when the chandelier crashed. Ashton has his watery eyes locked on the Ghost, not fear but acceptance in their depths. This intrigues the Ghost, and he removes the gag from the American's mouth.

"Why are you not fighting me?"

"We all must die at some point in time. If today is my day, then so be it," and he closes his eyes. The Ghost feels a pang of guilt in his heart. "I just hope you will forgive me for my failure, sir. I am sorry for what has happened, and for the measures you had to take."

The Ghost hears footsteps approaching and in one simple movement, he removes the ropes and kicks the chair from under Ashton, disappearing before the dancer comes around the bend. Unfortunately for the Ghost, this dancer comes equipped with a knife and can keep calm long enough to cut the barely conscious pianist from the rafter.

Ash stares in her rescuer's eyes. Meg Giry removes the rope from Ash's neck, tears flowing down both girls' cheeks. The dancer runs her fingers down the rope burns on Ash's swollen flesh, thinking how it would not be a surprise if it scarred.

"Why?" She whispers as men from the flies come to assist the two. "Why?"

"I . . ." Ash's voice is strained, in pain. "I can't . . . I can't . . . tell you . . . sorry." Meg walks with the men to Ash's room, and they understand when she asks to be alone with him. For once, they don't think anything inappropriate will go on. There was too much sorrow in the young woman's eyes for her to think of that, and the man in too much pain to want anything.

Meg closes the door behind her, almost falling before getting to Ash's side. Eyes refusing to open, Ash feels Meg remove her belt, shoe and socks, her jacket and begin to unbutton her shirt. She hears Meg gasp when she sees the bandages, assuming the dancer has thought the worst. She feels the shirt slide off.

Ash wants to smile but cannot when she feels Meg lay beside her, feeling the girl shake in her tears. She knows what this is, but she can't bring herself to think of it. Meg must be in love with the man she thinks Ash is. Ash realizes that, even for a small crush, anything that happened to her would impact Meg greatly. With this in mind, she knows she must be careful from now on.

"Why? Why?" She hears Meg whisper, the girl thinking Ash to be asleep. Ash moves her arm around Meg, takes her hand.

"There are some things, Little Giry, I cannot explain to you," Ash opens her eyes, forces her head to comply, and turns to face the tear stained eyes of Meg. "Why do men murder, why do men die, and why men kill themselves. I feel obligated to tell you it was an impulse, and I am a fool to do it. I am sorry for what I have done to you, to myself."

Meg presses her face into Ash's side, taking her words deep in her heart.

"Ashton . . ."

"You should be going to bed, Little Giry, before anyone thinks you have lost what cannot be replaced. Good night, sweetie." Ash lightly kisses Meg's forehead. The girl rushes from Ash's room, hesitance in every step.

Ash feels a sharp breeze rip though the room and wishes to God she had the strength to get up and hit the Ghost right in his masked face.

"Hello, attempted murderer. How can I help you?"

"Your little attitude might be cute to the ballet rats, but to me . . . a peeve."

"Yes, well, being assaulted and left to die peeves me, jackass!" Ash's voice is nothing but a harsh whisper, but the Ghost can hear every venomous word. "Now, how can I be of assistance?"

"I would say you can die for me, a pleasing thought after tonight's miserable failure. That will not be needed. Not anymore. So what you can do is go about your normal day, act like you have not a care in the world. I have what I want."

"And that would be?"

"Hmm . . . wouldn't you like to know," and he's gone.

#

Ash ignores the whispering and stares for one reason only. She is pissed off. It took her all night, all damn night, to think of what he meant in the room. Under her breath, more profanity that in a whorehouse flows as she barges into Christine's room and finds it as she suspected.

Empty.

"You son of a bitch!" She closes the door, locks it tightly, and stomps around the room. She grabs her wild curls, thinks of where she could be, how Christine could be found. Her eyes lock on the floor length mirror and it hits her. She takes Christine's hairbrush and throws it at the reflective glass.

It shatters inward, revealing a corridor. Satisfied with her discovery, Ash goes down the hall, knowing what she is looking for, and prepared to do whatever necessary to get the star soprano back.

#

"What do you think you are doing?" The Ghost's voice comes from everywhere and nowhere. She stares at the water to her right, prepared for water attach. An unlikely occurrence, but she is not taking any chances. Ash reaches in her pocket and takes her father's lighter in her cotton gloved hand, a plan forming in her mind.

"Where is the Daaé girl, Ghost? I know you have her. This has been your plan all along, hasn't it? Taking the girl for your own? You cradle robbing bastard!" There is a sharp pain in her abdomen, a thrust to the back of her knees. She is on the ground, clutching the lighter tightly as the Ghost wraps his fingers in her hair, lifting her head up.

"You do _not_ talk to me like that, ingrate!" He slams her face on the stone, blood gushing from her broken nose, a gash forming on her right cheek, going down to the corner of her lips. He pulls her head up again, this time he is inches from her face. "I'll break your neck, and this time Meg Giry won't be here to save you."

"Go ahead, just let me know she's safe. She's just a girl, Ghost; she won't understand . . . anything . . ." Ash spits the blood from her mouth toward him, missing his mask by centimeters. The Ghost chuckles.

"Why do you even care? It's not like you have feelings for her, right?" The Ghost's voice sounds vindictive, almost jealous. He thinks Ash is a threat, just not in the right way.

"No, I don't have any feelings for her. We've only just met, I don't know her at all. I do, however, know what it's like to be stuck with a sociopath . . . to be trapped with someone you fear . . . to be with a lunatic . . . to be with a person like you . . ." She sets her glove on fire and grabs at the mask, feeling the cloth of the glove and mask become ash while the Ghost jumps back, shouting curses at the young woman.

"You bastard!" The Ghost rushes forward, Ash ducking out of the way in time for him to have enough momentum to land in the water. She listens to him swim to the edge as she stands.

"Consider this my resignation, Phantom."

"I will get you . . ."

"And I will be waiting."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Ash realizes how idiotic of a decision that was when she finds herself sleeping at a rundown hostel three miles away from the opera. She has just enough money for a week at this place, and in the room is a small bed, a broken desk with no chair, and a stain she is pretty sure is either blood or semen. But, there are some things more important that her comfort.

Like getting Christine Daae out of the trouble she is in.

This Ghost is definitely more dangerous that the one she portrayed on stage, and if he is _half_ as insane as he seems . . . God have mercy on poor Christine.

Ash paces the small room, her feet stepping on the hem of her trousers, her shirt open with her unbandaged chest exposed. Her hands vice in her hair, she mutters prayer under her breath. She needs a plan, even a dumbass plan, to try and rescue Christine from the Ghost.

"Fire is always an option," She reminds herself as a low knock comes from the door. "Who is it?"

"A friend," is stated.

"I don't have any friends." She snaps at the female voice. It sounds eerily familiar and the last thing Ash needs is to be reminded of the past. It almost sounds like . . . The door opens, and a head of wild chocolate curls walks in and closes the door gently. For a moment, neither girl speaks or even moves. Ash feels a small tear caress her cheek as she studies the white dress, the Pointe shoes and the perfect face of the girl before her.

"Say something . . ."

Ash takes the girl's face in her hands, the warmth of her skin invading Ash. She rests her forehead against the girls with a sob. The girl curls her arms under Ash's, entangling her fingers in Ash's black hair as they sink to the ground.

"Ash?"

"It's you . . . oh my God, it's you." Ash takes her hands of the girl's face and wraps around her body in a tight hug. With a low giggle, Charity Evans rubs her best friend's hair, humming as Ash's breakdown almost brings her to tears. "Charity . . . how?"

"I don't know . . . I was at the eulogy . . . for your funeral and I looked at the empty coffin and I . . . I felt dizzy and I fainted. I woke to your voice saying that fire is an option for something and . . . here I am."

"Funeral?" Ash lifts her head to meet Charity's eyes. "I had a funeral?"

"You disappeared from the face of the earth. Principal Green and Captain Collins are at their wits end. They say you fell over and just . . . poof." Ash scoffs. "Everyone thinks you killed yourself." The last sentence is lost to Ash.

"Poof?"

"Poof," Charity uses her hand to make a poofing movement.

"Ah . . . poof. How intelligent of them." Both girls laugh for a moment before staring at each other's faces once more. Ash smiles. Charity leans forward, lines up her lips with Ash's ear and whispers. "And you wore white to my funeral. " Charity ignores the last statement.

"Where the hell are we? And why can I see your boobs?"

"Uh . . ." Ash stands, taking Charity with her, and sets them both on the bed. She starts to button her shirt, trying to form the words in her mind before she vomits up something incoherent.

"Ashton Marie?" Ash rubs Charity's shoulders and sighs.

"Just be quiet and keep an open mind."

#

"You're screwing with me, aren't you?" Charity looks at the bandages Ash has shown her, and the rope scar around her narrow neck, but she still cannot believe it. "Ash, you do realize this is impossible. To go back in time, to a fictional universe. It sounds like a bad fan story."

"I know, and that's not the worse part. Everyone hates me!"

"What else is new?"

"You bitch."

"Love you, babe."

"I don't mean like normal. The Phantom of the Opera is out for my blood, the Viscount has me on his list. And don't get me started on that toad Carlotta."

Charity crosses her arms. "Face them."

"What?" Ash gaps buttoning up her shirt.

"You want the Opera Ghost to leave you alone, stand up to him. Fight, try to beat him. As for Raoul, he won't do anything, and Christine will be back in two weeks. During that time, the Ghost will not do anything in the opera. You can stay there and accumulate enough funds for us both to live comfortably."

"I get paid by the week. Tomorrow is Sunday, that means two one hundred franc notes to last us how long we're going to be here. Besides, I don't work tomorrow."

"So I'll get a job."

"The corner is occupied," Ash thinks of the scantily dressed women who approached her a few hours before. Now, had she been drunk, or at least desperate . . .

"I'm a ballet dancer, I'll work with you."

"It's midseason!"

"And obviously stranger things have happened. They hired your sorry ass in time for the greatest love story in Paris history." Ash rolls her eyes. "Oh, would you take me to the Notre Dame? I'm dying to see it."

"Yes, you are."

#

Charity convinces Ash to take her for a stroll on Sunday. She wears another dress, a costume that she had made for their schools production Disney's Beauty and the Beast. Her role was miniscule, but the modest neckline and flowing skirt paired with the black flats are perfect for blending it with the crowds of Paris. Ash helps her plait her hair and they're off.

No one pays any mind to the pair. A tall young man and a sweet looking woman, though the boldness of the woman as she drags him window-to-window to gawk at the different dresses and jewels and toys is strange. Meanwhile, Ash—the poor young man they see—is cursing in her mind as Charity pulls her arm almost from the socket.

They make it to the Seine, and Charity points to the halfway finished Eifel Tower, curious as to why it is not done. Ash is not amused, thinking her friend to be joking. How sad that she isn't.

"You're kidding me?"

"Well, it's in every French movie I've ever seen."

"It won't be complete until the twentieth century, Cherry." Ash moves her eyes from the tower to the Notre Dame, its rose window shining in the morning light, reflecting the many colors and emphasizing the contours of the statuary, the faces of the Christ child and his mother. Gripping her hand, Ash leads Charity to the massive church, the shorter girl humming to the bells of Notre Dame.

#

The Ghost watches Ashton's every move, every expression. And that girl on his arm, beautiful as she is, seems to be in full control of the situation. Ashton just follows her, happiness on his face and emptiness in his eyes. It seems to the Ghost that Ashton Knight has more to offer than what he originally believed. His emotional absence is remarkable, something unexpected and worth remembering.

And more to use against him.

The girl, Ashton obviously has some feelings for her, be it love or just a protective instinct. If the Ghost get a handle on her, or just threatens her safety . . . he'll have Ashton back on his payroll in no time.

"Come on, Ash," The girl drags him back down the steps of the Notre Dame, the young man's arm at a painful angle and for a moment the Ghost pities him. "I need to go audition for the opera!"

"I highly doubt you will get a part, Charity. It's midseason, you're a dancer and all the roles are filled. And dammit, stop pulling on my arm!"

"Charity? How interesting." The Ghost collects his bag and returns to the shadows. Ashton has his dancing beauty and he has his. Christine Daae awaits.

#

"Miss Evans will work as a makeup artist until next season," Moncharmin tells Ash. "Her dancing is extraordinary, and I thank you for bringing her to our attention. However . . . what is your reason for doing so?"

"She is my sister, practically. She followed me here and wished to work along with me. Thank you for this opportunity for her, Monsieur Moncharmin, and thank Richard as well."

"Wait, child." Moncharmin stops Ash as her hands are on the doorknob. "Have you recovered fully from the . . . incident from earlier this week?"

"If you are referring to my attempted suicide, then yes. It won't happen again . . . I promise." It is obvious Moncharmin does not believe her.

"Very well. Good day, sir."

Ash exits the office with a chill down her spine. She's being watch, and she knows who by.

"Go to Box Five . . . we need to talk . . ."

"Not now, not later, not ever. You are a sick son of a bitch and I wash my hands of you." She starts stomping down the hall when a long, cold hand grips her shoulder.

"If you truly care for Charity Evans, you will." The hand is gone. Ash feels the ice stream through her veins as she mechanically walks. Her mind is in a state of shock, neither thinking nor absent of mind. She is aware of the wandering eyes, of the whispers. She ignores them.

A woman stops her at the door.

"No one goes in his box." The woman is perhaps forty, her hair dark but laced with silver, her eyes an muddy brown. She points Ash away from the door. "You must have the wrong seat."

"I was invited. The Ghost wants to have words with me, just knock on the door, Madame." She says, looking down with her eyes, not her head, to look at the tiny woman. "I ask you to either knock or excuse yourself."

"My apologies, sir." She steps to the side with a bow. As Ash takes the knob, she reaches in her pocket and lays a pile of franc notes in the woman's hand. "Monsieur!"

"I understand Meg Giry has been orphaned. Take this money and purchase for her a doll. A glass one with inky black hair and dark blue eyes. Have her dressed as a princess and have her delivered to my room. I expect her there by tonight. Keep the remainder."

"Bless you, sir," and she is gone.

Ash locks the box door and covers it with the red curtain. Ash looks at the two rows of two seats, each with gilded frames and red velvet upholstery. She walks to the front of the box, getting a wonderful view of the stage from the upper left side. She can see the dancers practice, see Charity watch them as she goes over a girl's face with foundation.

"I see you were convinced."

"If you lay a hand on her . . ."

"She does not have to be harmed, Ashton. Your cooperation will assure of that."

"I failed you, I attacked you, and I do not approve of your kidnapping of the most promising singer this side of the Atlantic Ocean. Why the hell do you want me back?" She turns swiftly, facing the Ghost with surprise in her eyes. No cloak or jacket. She sees him leaned back in the chair, his dress shirt fully buttoned and a vest over it, but he seems relaxed somehow.

Over his face is a new mask, a white one that shines in the candlelight. His eyes shimmer a fiery gold, his hair black as ebony and slicked back with a white streak down the middle. Even though his face is obscured, she knows he is smiling, arrogance coming in waves from his body.

"I want you back, Ashton, because you are the only person in this opera that no one wants anything to do with. For me, that is an advantage. The less people notice you the better, the more you can get away with, and the more I can get things done." He leans forward with his hands on his knees.

"So I do the dirty work and you get the spoils. That seems unfair, seeing as how I have no benefits from this."

"A thousand francs a week for you and your little friend down there, and she is not harmed."

"You wouldn't dare!" Ash shouts.

" _I_ wouldn't, but . . . the men who are staring at her so . . . lustfully . . . a virgin girl at the opera house is a rare thing, Monsieur Knight. I house one, you house one, and Sorelli houses the other. Tell me, would you rather take her yourself, or clean up after a drunk who got what they wanted?"

"No! You . . . her . . . I'll kill anyone who looks at her wrong, you included."

"Yes or no?" The Ghost grabs Ash's chin and forces her to look right in to his eyes. "A simple answer, yes or no?"

"Okay . . . I'll . . . I'll come back to you." He drops her face and she sinks to the floor, her body shaking in fury. "I'll work for you, I'll take the money, the protection . . . everything. Just don't . . . don't let her . . ." Ash holds her head, forces the images from her mind. they are not as disturbing as what she normally sees, but . . . Charity does not deserve punishment for Ash's pride.

Ash feels a small pressure on her leg. A wad of franc notes, she is certain of it. She hears the Ghost laugh and the air lightens when he vanishes.

"It is done. Oh, and say a word . . . and the deal is void."

#

Ash and Charity dine on Italian that night. The Ghost gave Ash an advance of five hundred, and she feels the need to treat her best friend to a night on the town. Four new dresses and shoes, a necklace and a faux engagement ring. Now, dinner.

Charity feels like a princess.

On her plate is Chicken Ravioli with an Alfredo sauce, on Ash's is a basic spaghetti dinner. Meatballs, regrettably, not included. They eat and they talk, they talk of schoolwork. They talk of Ash's disappearance, of her mother's death. They talk of Charity's mother, of her drug abuse and how they still don't know who her father is.

They avoid talking about Ash's father and brother.

"Tonight has been amazing, Ash. The dresses, the ring . . . though that is still a shock."

"I know, I know. Better safe than sorry. If they think your unavailable then we don't have to worry about workers trying to lift your skirt."

"What about you? See anyone you want to roll around with? Or anyone want to bed the exotic American man?" Ash sips her red wine, Charity preferred to try white, and considers telling a lie. She opts for the truth.

"Well . . . my second night here I—uh—was confronted in my room by the Prima Ballerina Sorelli. She was in her costume, though provocatively so, and she kissed me. She tried to undress me and uh . . . bang me," She takes a gulp of the wine. "I stopped her. I did not want her to discover my . . . missing parts." Not to mention goes forward with her desires would have had her arrested for homosexuality.

"Oh my."

"Yeah . . . I haven't seen her since . . . Okay, I have _seen_ her, but no confrontation or even a side glance. Oh shit." Charity turns and follows Ash's glare to meet with two men, one blonde one brunette, and the latter returning Ash's glare. The blonde man smiles and walks straight up to their table.

"Monsieur Knight, what a pleasant surprise."

"If only . . ." She whispers, and then louder, "How can I be of assistance?"

"Oh, I just wanted to say hello. You and Raoul seem to be close friends, he speaks of you almost every night. Isn't that right, little brother?" Raoul huffs but nods, his brother oblivious to the tension between him and the American. However, Raoul smells a rat, and his eyes rest on Charity in surprise.

"Who is this, Knight?" The Viscount holds out a hand that Charity places hers in. Her left hand. Acting as the typical gentleman, Raoul kisses the ring.

"This is my fiancée, Charity Evans. She followed me to Paris before I proposed. We're having dinner to celebrate."

"Here? On a pianist's salary?" Raoul inquires with a raised brow.

"Brother!" Philippe hisses.

"I have my ways, Viscount," Ash gives a side glance at Charity, who is having trouble not laughing aloud. "I hate to be rude, Count De Chagny, but I would love to get back to dinner with . . ." She holds a hand out to Charity.

"Of course, Monsieur Knight," Philippe grabs Raoul's arm. "We'll be out of your way."

#

Ash and Charity sit on her bed, dressed in nothing but their underclothes. They reenact the confrontation with the Chagny brothers for the fourth time, and even now it knocks them off their asses. Charity pulls up her bra and molds her face into Raoul's as he was dragged away.

"God, you look constipated."

"So did he." She says poking Ash's stomach. Her head looks around the room and locks on the covered mirror. "Why did you . . .?"

"I don't like seeing my reflection in that thing." Ash takes Charity's arm and spells out, OPERA GHOST WATCHES ME. "It's really rather . . . frightening."

"Oh, I see." Charity spells out, IS HE HERE NOW?

I DON'T KNOW.

DO I LEAVE?

NO. STAY TONIGHT. MAKE HIM THINK SOMETHING IS BETWEEN US. BY NOW, HE'LL KNOW OF THE ENGAGEMENT.

SO DO WE . . . YOU KNOW?

HELL NO! YOU DON'T SWING THAT WAY, CHERRY . . . DO YOU?

There is a knock on the door. "Ashton Knight? Delivery."

"Shit, that's right." Ash tosses the blanket over Charity as she pulls on her trousers. Charity lays flat, Ash ties her robe and opens the door. "Ah, she is complete." Ash takes the doll in her hands, feeling the delicate fabric between her fingers.

"I must say this is some of my best work. I wished to see your face myself."

"I am well pleased, as I am sure the recipient will be. You have truly made my night." Ash shakes the round bellied man's hand, his face gleaming in unspoken pride. "If ever I need another girl, I know who to call on."

"Monsieur, you are an angel. The little girl you give this to will love you forever."

"That's . . . exactly what I want. Have a wonderful night, Monsieur."

The man nods behind her, "You too, you lucky bastard." He leaves. Ash closes the door and refuses to turn around.

"Your boobs are showing, aren't they?"

"No."

"Then what are you doing?"

"I just wanted a peek, Ash . . . I looked from under the cover."

"Ugh!"

#

The Ghost hadn't expected this. He should have kept an eye on Ashton, have realized what was going on. He stands over the bed, sees the sleeping couple enveloped in each other's arms, naked as the day they were born. Apparently his is not as much of a prude as Sorelli's actions had led him to believe.

Fornication does not bother him, nor the chance of a child coming between his worker and his goals. He just wishes he knew of Knight and Evans being a couple, not just friends. It makes him feel foolish, like he was tricked. It is shameful for the all knowing phantom to miss such tiny details, he feels idiotic.

He does not like that feeling.

The Ghost stares at the engagement ring on Charity Evans' finger as her hand rests on Ashton Knight's back. He sees the contrast of her pink skin against his cold and yellow tinted skin. He wonders how a man who refused probably the most laid woman in the opera house got this beauty in his bed.

He leaves the room, the American's blanket falling back over the glass. It is like he wasn't even there.

#

"Holy shit . . ." Charity whispers against Ash's shoulder.

"I know."

"He totally thinks we had sex."

"That's what we wanted, isn't it. Not to arouse suspicion." The close contact with Charity's body is becoming too much for Ash to bear. She needs an excuse to separate from her friend and fast.

"And your boobs are so small." _That'll do it_. Ash unwraps her arms from around Charity and clasps them on her breasts. "Hey, they're gone." Charity reaches down between the two of them and takes her bra, clipping it back on while she laughs.

"Bitch."

"Underdeveloped."

"Midget."

"That's hurtful."

"So is having your nails buried in my back."

"Touché." They stare at the ceiling for a minute. "So, he comes in and checks on you every night?"

"This is the fourth time, so yeah. Every night. Dumb bastard thinks I'm asleep. He has no idea how long it has been since I _really_ slept."

"Even with Christine at the house by the lake? Does he realize what a risk that is?"

"Must think I'm a flight risk. I reckon I'm worth it, surprise. Thanks for acting with me, Cherry."

"No problem. Just don't ask for a kiss." Ash's voice hikes up an octave.

"I really hope that that's never needed." Charity rolls over and starts to sleep. Ash shifts to her stomach and pulls her bandages from under her pillow. She hopes that they never have to kiss to keep up the charade but she knows that with her current luck they'll be using tongue on the morrow. But, really, would that be such a horrible thing.

#

"Has it been two weeks yet?" Charity asks while she helps Ash with her new bowtie.

"Tonight, Cherry. She'll be back tonight. Speaking of nights, did you decide where you want the wedding to be? In a few weeks we can afford the Notre Dame. Moncharmin said we can use the opera chapel for free."

"And what, jump on the bed for our honeymoon?" Charity slaps Ash's shoulder for her to stand straight. No one cares for the two to share the room, not after Charity showed off the diamond on her hand. As for the supposed pre-marital sex, who hasn't at least once in their life? They are just awed that the two are planning to stay together after this.

"We can claim infertility. I'll even have an affair to add drama."

"Are we really going to get married?" Charity fixes her necklace, watching Ash in the mirror. Her friend buttons the cufflinks on her new violet suit and shrugs.

"I really hope not. It depends . . . from Christine's return, how long until the Masquerade?"

"Halloween."

"It's late May."

"Exactly."

"For shit's sake."

"I thought you would say that."

"Lesbian marriage isn't even legal in Ohio in 2014, let alone 1880s France. Shit."

"A ton of it. Come on, we have an opera to go to."

#

Ash and Charity see Christine for the first time in the wings after the performance. She has paled, but everything else is in perfect order. Especially the wedding band on her left hand. Charity whispers to Ash, gaining the attention of the blonde singer. Christine sees Ash and a strange woman with him, but still she feels fear.

It has to be him, there are too many similarities, too many coincidences. The hair, the skin, the eyes. But that woman, she doesn't add up. And on her finger . . . is that a diamond ring? Christine rushes from the wings, to her dressing room.

Her angel has become a monster, and from that monster a man appeared. Ashton Knight came, and everything went wrong. He has to be the monster. A creature in disguise . . . and that woman is part of that. She stares at the wedding band and realizes that is she is to be free from her angel turned monster, Raoul would have to know.

The Angel of Music is the Phantom of the Opera. The Phantom of the Opera is Erik.

And Erik is Ashton Knight.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

 _Tick-tock . . . there's the clock,_

 _Watch as the hours go by,_

 _Tick-tock . . . beware the clock_

 _For someone's going to die . . ._

Charity chews on the blueberry muffin, its warm tart flavor making her smile. Something strange happened a fortnight after Christine's return. She and Ash have been invited to dinner at the Chagny manor. Tonight, in fact. Charity is so excited she barely notices Ash's rigid body and exaggerated expressions.

After her small shack, she gets ready, happy as can be, humming All I Ask of You while Ash simmers on the bed, already dressed for the evening. She hangs her legs over the side, her gloved left hand wringing the glove fisted in her right. Her eyes are hard, her body convulsing. The very idea of entering that asshole's home infuriates her to no end.

Unfortunately, he told Charity, not her. Being her usual self, she said yes.

Ash almost punched her.

"Do you think he wants to apologize?" Charity tilts her head, testing to see if the chocolate hair bun will fall.

"For what, Cherry?"

"For how rude he has been since you arrived. I've asked around the opera, Ash, and all the people say that Raoul has been a royal pain to you for the past two months. Maybe this is his redemption ploy, a little bit of brown nosing."

" _Brown nosing_? Puhleze! The guy hates me, hates everything about me, and anyone I have interacted with."

"He's always been nice to me, Ashy," Charity pouts, running her finger from the corner of her eye to her jaw, mocking a tear. "I'm insulted." She takes a red bow, to match her gown and makeup, and ties it around her long neck.

"To him, you are a lovely young American girl. I, however, am a gaunt, ghastly, and rather repulsive man who somehow got you to agree to marry me. Which you haven't, yet, by the way . . . what are we doing about that?"

"We will discuss it _after_ dinner," Charity straightens Ash's golden tie and rubs a lint off the red, velvet jacket. "Surely there are forgers even in the nineteenth century, yes?" Charity notes the darkness under Ash's eyes, even more prominent than before. She knows for a fact that Ash has slept through the Ghost's visits, so insomnia cannot be the cause of this.

She must be having the nightmares again.

Charity grips Ash's hand and they make their way to what may be the most interesting night of their lives.

#

Unlike the grandeur and lavish décor Charity was expecting, Philippe and Raoul have a small, rectangular table prepared with fillets, soufflés, and four wine glasses prepared. Three of the glasses have white wine. One has red. Ash smiles knowingly as she sits with the singular glass, earning a wink and a smirk from the younger Chagny brother. After Philippe helps Charity to her seat beside Ash, the brothers sit side-by-side.

"This is unusual, Count," Ash takes a small sip from her glass. "Inviting two workers to dinner so late in the season. And not even the ones who make the opera entertaining." Philippe begins to cut his fillet with a chuckle.

"Monsieur, I don't know how well you hear your own playing, but ever since you joined the troop, the crowds have grown exponentially. We've had a wider range of audiences," he takes a large bite, teeth clicking on the fork. Still drinking her wine, Ash shudders at the sound.

Charity takes a small bite of the soufflé, feeling the air around Ash lighten at the news. For a moment, Ash actually smiles.

"Grown? I haven't noticed, Count. I haven't been paying attention to the crowds, only the music. It is difficult enough without the people staring at every single movement let alone paying attention to them." Ash takes the fork in her hand and tries her own dish, taking delight in the fluffy texture. Charity giggles at Ash's response, knowing for a fact that Ash talks about the size of the crowd every night, and how it makes her tic with nerves to have all those eyes around her.

"I've seen more American's at the Paris Opera since your arrival than in previous years combined," Philippe takes another bite and finishes it with a large, audible gulp of wine. He continues to fawn over Ash, Charity happily listening to his bragging, all the while Ash and Raoul remain in a glaring contest. Neither has blinked in a minute.

Raoul loses only to make the following statement, "I see you have gained the affections of La Sorelli, the Prima Ballerina. How did she take your sudden engagement?" Charity glances at Ash, hoping the other can create a feasible answer. Ash told her of Sorelli trying to seduce her, and yes the engagement has been made public.

Raoul must assume that Charity is oblivious to Ash's time _before_ her strange arrival.

"Well, Viscount, I haven't seen Sorelli privately since the first performance almost three months ago." She takes a small bite from her fillet. "Honestly, I do not think it was anything more that the same infatuation that once always has toward a stranger. You want to know all about them. Who they are, what they like, their age, their habits. Nothing more than girlish fantasy."

"Girlish fantasy, eh?" Raoul grins deviously and Philippe's eyes widen in realization.

"No. No, no, no, no! I know that look. Raoul, you sneaky little . . ."

"So what of Christine Daae's sudden fear of you, what do you make of _that_?" Ash bites down hard on her fork, the tongs bending under the force and puncturing the meat on the roof of her mouth. She pulls the utensil out, holding her hand over her lips in anger and pain. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Enough, brother!"

"I cannot say that I am aware of what you are speaking of, Viscount," The blood bubbles on Ash's lips, on her teeth and tongue. A couple of drops slip down her chin as she hisses out her next sentence. "I have seen, however, her avoiding your every move like the plague and heading straight to her room after every performance."

"You son of a bitch! What did you do to her?"

"I thank you for your kindness, Count de Chagny." Ash takes the handkerchief from her pocket and covers her face. "The meal was enticing and your mannerisms excellent." She takes Charity in her free hand. "Let's go, darling."

"Oh, God, what's going on?" The frightened brunette whispers as they exit the dining room, the sound of Philippe shouting at his brother echoing through the mansion.

"I'll tell you what, Cherry. I think it is about time I found the lair of this Phantom."

#

"You are insane if you think I'll let you get away with this, Ashton Marie!" Dressed in her hoodie and jeans, Ash leans against the blocked mirror as Charity rants on and on about how idiotic it is for her to try and confront the Phantom so early in the game.

"If I don't do it now, I will probably be arrested or something because of that damn de Chagny guy. He thinks _I_ did something to Christine, and that that is why she is acting so strange. Only four people know better and half of them are sitting in this room having a pointless argument."

"He won't even be near the opera level until the masquerade ball, Ash. You go down there and you are in his territory, his hunting ground, no one can save you or even want to. He will kill you, Ash. He's insane from abuse and isolation."

"Dammit, I can't just let him get away with ruining my reputation, Cherry."

"Ignore Raoul, ignore Christine, focus of something important like . . . like . . . our impending marriage. It has to happen or we will be the scandal of the century."

"We will be scandalous anyway once our secret is let out," She points to her bound breasts with a cocked brow. Charity sticks out her tongue, grabbing Ash's face with her hands and forcing her face to her friend's.

"You will change, you will come with me, and we are getting married today."

"Charity Knight doesn't have a nice flow to it, ya'know."

"Shut up!" Charity slaps Ash.

#

After signing the paper at the courthouse, it is official. Ash and Charity are new married, illegally so, but married none the less. No more whispers or snide glances, or even the worry of people growing suspicious. Ash looks at the matching silver rings around her and Charity's left hands with a stone in her throat.

She always wanted to be married, but not to her best friend. Never her best friend! Charity prefers men, after all, and Ash cannot help but feel the danger she put Charity in will come down on her the hardest.

"This is so wrong."

"Nothing is wrong with two women marrying." Charity scolds as they walk down the boulevard arm in arm, Ash unknowingly earning glares of envy from men who would _want_ to marry Charity.

"No, not that. That doesn't bother me, what does bother me is that we are doing something that could get us killed!"

"Oh, you worry too much. It's bad for your health."

A shadow lets out a relieved sign as he observes Ashton and Charity's movements down the road. Yes, it had to happen eventually, but why now? What does it matter to the Americans that they just up and become married? Everyone knows the girl is no longer virginal, and they all gossip about when Charity will become pregnant and fiancé lacking. His mind reels with possibilities

Apparently something happened fast to make them become spouses so soon. And then a thought comes to the scowling shadow. What if Ashton's little wife _is_ pregnant? What if, if their panic, they married just to cover it up? If she were to start showing, their reputations would be ruined as the world would know of their fornication. With little choice, the woman will have to go into hiding.

The shadow watches them examine a toy shop, Charity eagerly pointing a various toys while Ashton's disinterest leaks from his every orifice. The shadow sneaks closer, sitting on a bench with his newspaper, and picks up the conclusion to their conversation.

"You're wasting time, Charity. God knows I can't get you pregnant, and if you happened to become I sure as hell couldn't be the father."

Damn. Well that eliminates one option.

"I know you can't, Ash, but if we were to adopt . . ."

"Do we have the time? The money? Face it Charity, a family is not in the hand we've been dealt." He holds his wife to his heart as she begins to silently sob in sorrow. Ashton kisses the top of her head and leaves his face in her hair. "You should have never accepted my proposal. You should have married Garrett from Virginia."

"But I don't love Garrett," Charity smiles up at Ashton, "I love you." She kisses him chastely on the cheek and they start away from the shop, talking incoherently about other subjects. T

The Daroga lowers his paper and crumples it up. No child from this marriage means that the Ghost can really get under Ashton's skin with his sterile state. Praying his assumptions toward Ashton are wrong, the Daroga makes his way home, opposite the direction of the happy couple.

Ash glances over her shoulder at the turban wearing man from the opera with a triumphant smile.

"Did we fool him?"

"You know it, Cherry." They bump fists as they walk under the night sky, unaware of the second pair of eyes that was following them.

#

"Sterile? The poor girl must really love him if she is willing to go barren for him. It is an embarrassment for the boy, but it would explain why they did not care to be so improper before. Still, if something like that were to get around . . . No. All that would do would be draw attention to him. Can't have that.

"What a shame that their combined talents cannot be continued down to the next generation, but surely I can use this to my advantage. Perhaps . . ."

#

 _"Daddy, I'm scared."_

 _"Go find your brother sweetie, I'll handle this."_

 _"Daddy, he has a gun . . ."_

 _"I know, Ashy, just . . . let my daughter go, please. I—wait—Alex! Let them go! You bastards!"_

 _"Dad?"_

 _"Daddy! What are they doing to Alex? Don't point that at them! Daddy!"_

#

The crack from her dream follows her to reality as Ash tosses the covers off her half naked body to keep from suffocating. She faces Charity, still sleeping soundly, and shivers as the cool morning air caresses the sweat on her skin. Fearing a random visit from the Ghost, Ash pulls the comforter to cover her body, but still does not feel warm. She counts on her fingers.

"Four."

"Four what, Ash?"

"Nightmares."

"Again? Ash . . ."

"I'm fine, Cherry just . . . go back to sleep." No response. "Good girl." Ash covers her head with a pillow, screaming into its downy softness and almost ripping the cloth with her teeth. She switches positions with the pillow in time to catch a tall, thin figure staring at her with gleaming golden eyes. Pushing the comforter over her shoulders, Ash sits up.

"I didn't wake you, did I?" The Ghost whispers sounding genuinely concerned.

"I was already awake, Ghost. It's been a busy day, believe it or not. Where the blazes have you been?"

"If that was your concern I would have taken you with me, my friend. I don't want to keep you up, so I'll simple leave the note on the desk. Congratulations on your marriage, if I may say."

"Thank yeh—how did you . . .?" The figure is gone, the wax seal of the note gleaming beside a newly lit candle. In a preventative move to keep from an awkward scenario, Ash slips a large shirt over her head and boxers over her panties. She unseals the letter and skims over the messy pen, her eyes widening in terror as she finishes the conclusion.

"My God . . . oh, God no . . ." Ash presses the paper against her chest and realizes that she should have known the Ghost would have been watching her the whole time. And now he thinks Charity wants children, and that Ash cannot give her any. He swears to leave Ash alone for the rest of her life, paying her every month and making certain no one suspects her of ever cavorting with him. But with one caveat.

He wants Charity to carry his child.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Ash burns the paper before Charity awakens to the bells of Notre Dame. She feels like such a fool, an absolute ignorant buffoon. Of course he would want something big, something important. Pretending to be sterile seemed so foolproof, so solid. If she agreed, everyone would thing Charity had an affair, or that it was some miracle from God. She keeps thinking in "ifs", knowing she has no choice but agree to the Ghost's terms. But someone else has to agree before they can figure out how this is even going to work.

Ash has the strangest feeling she knows _exactly_ how Charity is going to react.

#

Meg Giry eyes Ashton and Charity coming toward the stage, everything seeming normal. But the small girl knows that something is off. Charity is beautiful, as usual. Her chocolate curls are pinned to her head, her gown a shade of yellow that complements her hair perfectly, a brown apron contrasting with her pink skin only making her appear more angelic than before. But Ashton is a different story.

Ashton is nodding to Charity's every word, his normally yellowish skin white as paper. His shirt hangs on his shoulders like a clothed skeleton. His steps are slow and deliberate, almost like he is using all his focus on walking, avoiding thought at all costs. His shin bumps the first seat in one of the rows, and he falls to the floor, Charity turning gracefully to help him to his feet. He continually brushes her off, a stone cold expression on his face that he molds to a goofy smile.

Meg feels the worry blossom in her chest. Ashton takes his place among the orchestra, preparing for the last rehearsal before the masquerade. Charity disappears behind the scenes and Meg is pulled to the dressing room before she has the chance to speak to Ashton, seeing him lock eyes with her seconds before.

#

The Ghost watches the rehearsal go perfectly. Christine's voice is more powerful than ever, the orchestra sounds like heaven, and the dancers never miss a step. The hanging promise of destruction does wonders for getting these opera rats to do things properly. And speaking of proprieties, he smirks as Charity Knight bounces over to her husband, no doubt clueless as to the Ghost's plans for her.

It is so simple. A bottle or two of semen, a turkey baser for insemination, and the mask of a gift from God. He has heard the ballet rats' gossip about Ashton's apparent inability to reproduce, some even planning on using it to their advantage, if they can get him drunk enough. But the very fact that the entire opera somehow knows that he cannot have children will make this occurrence even more satisfying.

Ashton has no choice but to do what the Ghost demands, or face public ridicule. All it would take would be a carefully placed drug and a swift undressing for the whole opera house to believe he is unfaithful, and the Ghost will do whatever is necessary for his plans to unfold. The couple exit the auditorium, hand-in-hand, and heads together.

#

"Miss Giry," Ash peaks in the ballerinas' boarding room, the whole group of girl turning to face her while Meg's inky eyes light up. "Little Giry, I have a present for you." She steps in, bowing to the blushing group as Meg steps forward.

"Monsieur, what a surprise." She stands on her tip-toes, tilting her head to the side. "What sort of present could you possibly have for little me?"

"How about a little you?" Ash pulls the doll from behind her back, her grin widening as the girl embraces the toy giggling. _She looks like an angel_ , Ash thinks as the child thanks her profusely until she seems to go hoarse. Ash kneels, taking Meg in a warm hug, the girl placing a fast kiss on her cheek without anyone noticing.

"Ashton, she is perfect."

"Not as perfect as the original, Little Giry." Ash moves to where she and the girl are eye-to-eye with a glimmer in her iris. Meg gasps, seeing the ember-like quality Ash's eyes have at this exact moment. "I want you to know that if you ever need _anything_ , my wife and I are here for you. I know what it is like to lose everything, sweetheart. As long as I am alive, I will watch over you. Charity and I both."

"Ashton . . . thank you."

"No, Little Giry, thank you."

#

ARE YOU SURE THAT IS WHAT HE WANTS?

IT WAS IN INK! "SHE WILL SUROGATE, YOU SHALL RAISE IT AS YOUR OWN." SOUNDS PRETTY UPFRONT TO ME, CHERRY.

Ash finishes spelling her sentence on Charity's arm, the time almost midnight. They sit across from the other in their nightclothes, Ash with a robe over her shoulders to keep the chill out. Of course she told Charity of the Ghost's plans, and doing so without his noticing is not that difficult, if they do not speak it.

AND HE WILL LEAVE US ALONE? Charity spells, though her body language reads as uncomfortable. Understandable, without a shadow of a doubt. Charity always said she never wanted children, and to be put in a situation where her sex is used against her in such a vial way . . .

Ash prays they can think of another way out of this.

WELL . . . GIVE ME UNTIL MORNING. I NEED TO THINK ON IT.

I UNDERSTAND.

"Sweet dreams, love." Ash lays the robe off the bed, laying back and wrapping up beside Charity. Charity copies her motions, excluding the robe bit, but also not going to sleep. It is a difficult decision, and becoming a mother to a sociopathic/psychopathic genius is a fantastic and rather frightening idea. However, there is something that hinders her answer, and it is not a clouded mind.

"Ash . . . I've never had my period. I can't have children." Her confession falls on deaf ears, and her sobs attract no attention. Her only friend is asleep, and the one who longs for a child is busy planning for the most devastating masquerade in Paris history. She is truly alone at this moment.

#

Charity waits in silence as Ash takes her time in the bathroom the following morning, a wail of pain indicating that all is not entirely well in there. Charity creates a witty comment to not let Ash know how frightened she is.

"Satan's Sacrificial Waterfall, Ashy?"

"N-no . . . indigestion. My period has been irregular since I arrived here. Stress and all that. I have at least two weeks to go." Ash begins to grunt.

"Ah." She says nothing more. Ash comes out is her arms wrapped around her stomach, her face wrenched in agony. Now is not a good time, Charity decides, and rises from the bed to Ash's side. Lifting her black skirt, she leads Ash to the chair, the sweat from the taller girl dripping in her hair.

"I think I may die."

"You are a drama queen." Ash's legs sprawl, her arms fall to the side and her head back. Her chest heaves in deep gasps as she tries to force the pain out. "What did you eat to do this to you?"

"Only shrimp does this to me. Remember, that one waitress had to take my plate back when we ate by the Seine last week. Gah! It feels like someone is twisting my entrails!" Ash's abdomen thrusts forward in a new wave of pain, creating a very un-masculine shriek in her throat.

"So, someone slipped shrimp in your bourbon last night? As I recall, the only thing you ate was two glasses of that and a steak . . . make from diced beef. Oh God, of course."

"Of course, _what_?"

" _He_ poisoned you! That bastard is trying to hurry an answer from you, and so be poisoned you." Sherlock Holmes would be proud. Charity almost dances in her revelation if it was not for the twists of torture on Ash's face. Lightly, she goes to the bathroom and fills a bowl with water and throws a cloth in for good measure. "Thank God it's Sunday, or else Moncharmin might have a heart attack."

"And Richard would piss himself." Charity wrings some liquid out, laying it over Ash's face for some cooling relief. "Ugh . . . there is a God." She slaps her hand over the cloth, thanking Charity for her kindness. They both almost calm enough for Charity to tell Ash to truth when someone bangs on the door. "Christ in Heaven!"

"I'll get it, you diva," Charity chuckles sliding to the door. "Hello?" Her smile drops as the tan skin of the Prima Ballerina enters her view. "Can I help you?"

"I um . . . I have come to ask for your forgiveness, Madame Knight. Before your arrival all that time ago, I tried to-"

"Seduce Ashton, I know, he's told me. You didn't know where his heart lies, and I cannot blame you for wanting him so. He is a catch, after all." Both giggle.

"I hear you talking about me! What's going on?"

"It's Sorelli, Ash, she's come to apologize for coming on to you," Ash laughs, melting into a cry of pain as another wave hits. "Oh, poor baby."

"Is something the matter with Ashton?" The concern in Sorelli's voice makes Charity smile. Even though the "man" is married, she still harbors feelings for "him". Charity thinks it is somewhat cute, her hopeless infatuation.

"Something he ate last night isn't agreeing with him, that's all. He'll be better by morning, I assure you."

"I think Lucifer is stabbing me!"

"That's nice darling."

#

The Ghost laughs as Ashton lets out another grunt of pain. It was luck, dinning in the same restaurant as the loving couple, leading to his discovery of the young man's allergy. This will certainly entice an answer one way or the other. After all, what teaches a lesson better than discomfort? Realizing that Ashton's answer might be a no, the Ghost thinks about his response to it.

He'll kill the boy and get on with his plans.

But, in case he says yes . . .

He stows away in his bedroom, taking a seat as far from a mirror as possible. He completely disrobes, a glass jar in his left hand that he positions between his legs. His mind swims for things arousing, things that will make the job easier. With his eyes closed, he begins the process slowly.

#

Two days pass before the jar of white shows up on Ash's vanity. The substance within makes her gag at the very thought of him jerking off in it. God, they are going to have to go through with it. A turkey baster lays beside it, so she knows what she will have to do. Making certain the mirror will remain covered throughout the conception, she rouses Charity and points to the tools.

"We have no choice after all."

"Oh God . . . Ash, there's a problem with this."

"I don't want to see it either, Cherry, believe me. This is going to be messy so let's move it to the bathtub to keep your legs elevated and help the process."

"Ashton! I can't . . ." She touches her stomach, her hands shaking. "It doesn't work."

"What doesn't work . . . oh, shit! You mean?"

"I'm sorry."

Ash looks at the tools with frosty breathing. The blood leaves her face, her eyes growing freakishly dark. She covers her face with her hands, her mind swimming with thoughts of ridicule and failure. She begins to pace, chewing her bottom lips until it bleeds trying to force a new idea out. It seems to her that there is one other option. He grabs the jar and baster, stomping to the bathroom door before looking over her shoulder.

"You coming?" She holds up the baser. "I can't do this myself, you know."


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

"No. No, no, no, no!" Charity stomps after Ash, nearly slamming the bathroom door behind her while Ash begins to remove her trousers. "Hey, are you listening?" Ash glances over her shoulder, her eyes shooting bullets as she turns and holds the jar up.

"You see this, Cherry? Semen. _His_ semen. You can't get pregnant, he wants a child. As soon as the masquerade is over, I will quit. You will quit. I'll get . . . _pregnant_ . . . and we shall live out our days happily in the middle of Ireland for all I care." She shakes the jar again for emphasis. "Our life, our future, all of it relies on this little jar of cells growing into a person." She slams the jar on a nearby counter and finishes removing her trousers and undergarments.

Charity stares at the protruding pelvic bone and shudders.

"What?"

"You will have to gain weight to keep the fetus alive." Stiffly, Charity's small hands take the buttons of Ash's shirt one-by-one and push it off. She reaches for the bindings when Ash grips her wrists in her long hands. "Let go, Ashton."

"You will have to disappear when I become pregnant. We both will."

"Very well, let's not dally." Charity wrenches her hands from Ash's and rips the end of the bandages off. Ash watches as Charity begins to pump warm water in the tub and move two large towels over to the edge. She holds them both up. "This is to dry off with, and this is to keep your legs up."

"Understood."

"Are you a virgin?" Charity prepares the baser and dips it in the sticky white liquid. Ash remains silent. "Ashy?" She blinks and lets out a low sigh. Charity glances over her shoulder, her eyes demanding an answer.

"Define virgin." Ash shifts awkwardly from foot to foot, clasping her hands behind her.

"Ever have sex?" Charity snaps, believing Ash to be playing with her. She fills the baser, looking at Ash from the corner of her eyes. Ash's pale face is tomato red, her body ridged and her eyes downcast. "Ash . . . you have had sex. Haven't you?"

"I've never even kissed a . . ."

"God, Ash!" Charity nearly drops the glass baser in her shock. "How . . . I mean . . ."

"Virgins get inseminated, it's no big deal." Ash waves her hand. "Virginity is a pointless symbol created by men who believed their penis could change who a woman is. Now . . . I'll get in the tub." Ash points to the tub, her finger twitching and her lips stiff. Charity grimaces at the filled baser and glowers.

"Yeah, you do that."

#

The Ghost tries and fails to stay from the Knight's mirror. His curiosity gets the best, and as he presses his ear against the glass, he is confounded as to why it is so quiet in there. Though against his better judgment- _if they are being intimate, I will turn tail_ -he slides the glass open and steps through the threshold. He is welcomed with muffled grunting from the lavatory.

"It hurts . . ." The voice is too distorted for him to identify, but he assumes it is Charity. "Take it out, take it out!"

"This was your choice, remember?" Ash sounds angry, though the Ghost can guess why. If his wife had agreed carry another man's child he would be angry too. "You wanted to be a mother, and this was the only way. Here's another dose."

"Aha!" The Ghost steps back, his body feeling grimy for listening to her cries of pain, knowing she was unwittingly having his child and not a random donor's, and rubs his arms to try and get rid of the slimy coating. He quickly leaves the room, the breeze of the partly open mirror gone from his mind. In the recesses, he only hears the screams of agony from Charity Knight.

#

Ash is crying, Charity is cursing violently, but the deed is done. She is glad for the warm embrace of the water, the pain between her legs and the steady trickle of blood from her most private area clouds the comfort from her mind. They slightly altered their voices so that any listener will have the speakers flipped, but the pain in Ash's false high voice was all too real.

"So . . . is that was the first time is like?" She asks with a quaking voice.

"To an extent. Normally what penetrates is softer than a giant tube of glass. And normally the receiving body is a lot more relaxed, more welcoming for the object. With the physical trauma done, I basically just raped you. I . . ." Charity's eyes grow wide. She collapses against the wall with a yelp. "Oh God! I raped my best friend."

"I volunteered," Ash moans lifting a finger for emphasis.

"Tell that to—to—" Charity loses her ability to articulate.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, both girls clueless as to what to say. Ash shifts as her legs start to grow numb and she decides to stand. _What's the stuff gonna do, flow out of me?_ Not looking over to Charity, Ash rips the towel off the rack and wraps it around her narrow body. Charity flees the room as Ash starts to dry off.

#

Charity grips her hair, breathing deep and slow. Today, she as seen more of her best friend than she _ever_ imagined that she would see, and has done even more physical damage than she ever imagined. But, that is not the worse part. No, the worst part is what she saw on Ash as she injected her. On her legs, her calves and tights, are burns. Self-inflicted.

A small chill from her tight grips her arm. Charity glances over to the covered mirror and notices that the blanket is dipping in on the left. Slowly, she walks to the mirror and presses against the divot. Her hand goes in. The bathroom door opens as her entire arm vanishes behind the looking glass.

#

"Cherry, what the hell are you . . .?"

"The mirror is open." Ash stops mid step, her legs still pressed together.

"Wh— _what_?"

"The mirror. Is. Open. He was in here, and he left it open!" Ash jumps forward and covers Charity's mouth with her palm. Charity's exclamations are muffled, but Ash is pretty sure one word rhymes with "duck".

"Calm down, or I'll knock you out." The coldness of Ash's voice forces Charity to comply as she moves the rest of the mirror away from the threshold. "He really did forget." Charity backs against Ash and whimpers.

"What do we do?"

"Close it," Ash states. "Forget we ever noticed. He must've fled when he heard us in the bathroom, not even acknowledging his own slip." Ash grabs the edge of the mirror and starts to slide it shut. Charity stops her.

"We could confront him now, Ashy. Tell him to leave us alone, to go away."

"And he could kill us both before we take a step beyond the bedroom." She rips Charity away from the frame and finishes closing it. It clicks. Ash recovers the glass and nods in success. "He doesn't seem like the kind of man that listens to reason easily, Cherry. If we even tried to talk to him, who knows what he might do." Charity nods solemnly, knowing with all her heart that Ash is right. They join hands and leave the dressing room.

This is their last week before the Ghost's big event at the Masque. They want to enjoy every moment.

#

The Ghost curses his ignorance, his carelessness. He has to rush toward the open mirror, to close it before Ashton and Charity are finished being together and notice. He stops three feet away from the mirror, his eyes wide in surprise at it being closed. He rakes his hair back as he realizes what must have occurred. They saw the mirror was open, that he was vulnerable. And they chose to lock the passage, to protect the Ghost's secret.

He blinks away his shock. "I have severely misjudged you, Ashton Knight. I am sorry."

#

Charity dances alone to the ballet that is playing on the stage. She can feel the passion in Ash's playing, as the current movement is heavy on piano melody, and that steady rhythm gives her the encouragement to dance. They are one night away from the final performance before the Masque, and so far Ash is not showing any signs of pregnancy. Minor agitation, but that is normal. Charity dances her worry away, imagining a grand audience and an admirer with green eyes in the front.

She does not know why she favors green eyed men, it has always been so.

The girl has her eyes closed, but after watching Meg and Sorelli dance at so many performances, she could to it backward. After landing a jump, she is startled by applause. Charity stops, faces the interloper, only to meet the eyes of a tall, dark skinned man with the most beautiful green eyes she has ever seen. With a blush, Charity straightens her skirt and curtsies.

"Forgive me, Madame Knight. I did not mean to stare." His accent sends shivers up her spine. She likes them. "It is just . . . I have never seen such grace in a woman of this land before. I had believed that only girls of my native country could move like a serpent."

"Like a serpent? Well, I wouldn't say that," She giggles awkwardly, shifting from foot to foot. "I've just been doing this for a while is all. Back home, in America."

"Ah, land of the free and home of the brave. Your dedication is apparent, Madame Knight. Your movements are much more fluid than those of the Corp de Ballet. I am amazed that you are not one of their members." Charity looks to her shoes, catching his lean, muscled form in her eyes as she does so.

"Yes, well . . . I came to the country too late for joining and the owners were kind enough to offer me this job until next season. My husband's kind standing with Moncharmin and Richard is why I am here." The man chuckles.

"Ah, yes. His relationship with the owners. And with the Opera Ghost?" Charity feints confusion.

"I'm sorry, sir. What are you talking about?" The man's friendly face melts to a scowl of disbelief.

"Your spouse, Sir Ashton. I am aware of the relationship he has with the Phantom of the opera. I have heard their discussions and their planning. As you seem unaware, I will warn you." He takes two steps forward, his turban finally coming to light. Charity realizes who this man is with his final sentence. "His working with that beast can only lead to his own destruction. Leave Paris, and never return." Charity's initial shyness morphs to skittish worry, her hands shaking and her breathing hitching. Before she can faint, she excuses herself from him.

"Yes, Daroga," With her slip, Charity scurries away from the Persian, leaving him is shock at her knowledge of his title.

#

"I am not going and that is final!" Raoul listens to Ashton and Charity argue from beyond the door, smiling the entire time. They are acting, he is sure of it. That man he heard in Christine's room is taking residence in the opera under everyone's nose. The young America's voice has an accent, both of the American's do, but the rise and fall of the tone is unmistakable. This child is the Angel of Music from Christine's room.

"Ash, I've been designing our outfits for months. The theme is Black-&-White, and my Hades-Persephone costumes are perfect for this! Oh, please change your mind."

"Cherry . . . with You-Know-Who always on my ass, the Viscount and his big brother glaring at me, and Christine Daae's drama, I don't believe I'd have any fun even if I did go. No. I think it would be better for all involved if I just stayed out of the way for now." _I'd wager you would, you beast._

Raoul considers bursting through the door, announcing he knows who Ashton truly is, but stops when a certain part of the man's sentence sticks out. "What? 'You-Know-Who'? Interesting . . ." He leans against the wall, pondering on whom this mystery person could be, why he is so worried about them? Then the dark skinned man comes to mind.

It makes sense, once he considers it. The dark skinned man came to the opera just before Ashton. The two have never been seen together, but that would be the perfect cover. "How could he be my accomplice? I have never met this man." Yes, yes. Now to gather proof. A ballerina had seen Madame Knight with the man, but she seemed frightened, not interested.

The dark skinned man is the instigator, Ashton is the catalyst, and Charity is the poor innocent. Raoul grins his childlike grin, looking more devious than youthful. Ashton might not appear at the masque, but who is to say his alter ego will not? Raoul scurries away from the door before Ashton and Charity can know he was out there.

#

Charity's stomach churns in the middle of the night, her body coated in a thin sheen of sweat while the blankets are piled over a soundly resting Ash. That man, the Daroga, why did she call him that? It was a dead giveaway that she knows who he is, what he is here for. Even calling him Persian would be folly. She knows she screwed up majorly. He had not even suspected her, and now she would be just as guilty as Ash.

She listens to Ash's gentle breathing, praying that she would become pregnant soon, so they can hide. Charity visibly cringes at that idea of Ash baring the Ghost a child. Ash is strong, physically but mentally . . . she wonders how her friend even managed this long without a meltdown. There is a creak from the corner of the room, a footstep nearly inaudible on the carpet.

Charity forces her eyes closed and regulates her breathing. She can feel his gaze on her form, tracing her body and freezing on her face. The air shifts, his breathing slightly louder. _He must be kneeling_ , she thinks fighting a shiver.

"I would like to thank you, Madame Knight. I can't say I understand your sacrifice, not one bit. Your first and only child being that of a monster must frighten you. I apologize for your husband's trickery, and my own, of course." He sighs. "What I have done to the two of you is unforgivable. I know you are unaware of my influence on your life, I can only pray that your husband can look beyond my sins. Pleasant dreams, my dear." His presence vanishes, and charity finds her ability to breath.

His voice . . . his voice.

#

That voice . . . that _voice_! Ash opens her eyes in time to see the blanket settle in front of the mirror, the Ghost's voice still ringing in the air. She moves her arm back, stunned to discover she is completely covered with blankets, and smacks Charity's leg lightly.

"Cherry . . . did he talk to you?"

"God, Ash, his voice is everything I dreamed it would be." She fawns taking her share of the cover back. "I think I'm in love, Ash."

"You are pathetic, little Cherry." Ash moans tucking under the quilt and digging under the pillow for soundproofing. Maybe if her ears aren't exposed his voice will vanish from her head.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Laurel Thibodaux looks at the glistening of the opera house with a pang of envy penetrating her heart. The young woman's attire is not weather appropriate, revealed cleavage and skirt ripped up the front ever so scandalously. Her bare feet pat on the sidewalk as she watches the patrons flood in for the masquerade. Gaudy gowns of white, elegant black suits and tie, some a perfect blend of the two and others terrible disasters of fashion.

One such patron dressed in all black rushes away from the front doors, his cloak flowing in his own breeze as others attempt to gain his attention. Laurel perks up. This is a good a chance as any to get some money for the night, and perhaps a warm bed. Sometimes they are kind enough to allow her to stay the night. She leaps forward, moving with all the grace of a ballerina, and catches up with him near a streetlight. He stops, turns on his heels, and growls.

"May I help you?" His gleaming, molten gold eyes freeze her in her tracks.

She must appear miniscule to him, looking forward to only see the man's chest. She raises a brown hand to cover her full lips, lowering her maroon eyes in shame. Laurel takes two steps back, a lock of ebony curl falling before her eyes. The man shifts to his other foot in the silence.

"Forgive me, monsieur. I did not intend to offend." The man waves his hand in a dismissing gesture, using the same hand to lift her chin up. His eyes are now kind, tinged green and relaxed. She almost sees emotion behind them, but he must be forcing it all within.

"No offence was taken, mademoiselle. You merely startled me." Laurel regains her composure, brushing her skirt off her new confidence. "Who do I have the pleasure of me-my God. Your clothes!" Laurel looks down on her ragged dress in confusion. "You must be freezing." The man removes his cloak and drapes it over her shoulders, the no doubt expensive cloth now trailing in the puddles under their feet.

The man then notices her lack of footwear.

"Why are you so underdressed?" Laurel tilts her head in disbelief.

"Monsieur, there is no need to . . ." The man lifts her off the ground like a child, her sentence cut off causing her to squeak a little. "Monsieur!" Laurel wraps her arms around his thin neck, completely unaware of how to react to this situation. This man seems clueless of what she does or the way people across the street look at them, with scorn and judgment.

"You need a proper dress and footwear."

"Monsieur, what I need is for you to relinquish your grip on me." The man looks her in the eyes, black hair falling over his golden eyes. "I thank you for your kindness, but I do not need you to do anything for me."

"I can't just leave you to starve and die out here."

"Take me in for the night and you won't." The man stiffens, closing his eyes slowly and letting out a breath. It is almost as though he was trying to convince himself she was not what she was.

"I won't take advantage of you." His grave tone sends a shiver up Laurel's spine. He is going to rip his cloak off her and leave her alone, she is sure of that. They all do. "I will, however, keep you alive. For now." He starts walking them further down the street, looking around at the late-night boutiques and muttering about what her possible size could be.

"What?"

#

Laurel sits against the man's chest sobbing, her fingers entangled in his hair and her face buried in his neck. He cradles her tight, his hands rubbing her back and arm as he hums calmly. Laurel's behavior is childish, that she knows, but the events of tonight are too fantastic for her to restrain herself.

He bought out the room for the month, including food, convincing the woman at the front desk that she was his half-sister, the child of a servant. He purchased her dresses, ribbons, boots and slippers, everything she could ever need. For the first time in ages, she is clean, warm, fed. Laurel presses a kiss against his collar and closes her eyes.

"Thank you so much, monsieur."

"You said that. About twelve times already, actually." He chuckles, taking the hand off her arm and resting it on the arm of the chair.

"You counted?"

"Nor really." Silence.

"Why, monsieur?"

"Why what?"

"Help me. Save me. I am a whore, I am beneath you."

"That job just didn't seem to fit you, mademoiselle. You're not the type to give themselves away like," He snaps his finger, "that." With all his kindness and his sacrifice, Laurel decides she owes him at least a proper introduction.

"My name is Laurel."

"And I am Ash." She shifts in his lap, now straddling his legs, looking hard at his face. He screws his face up, earning a small laugh from Laurel. "Is something the matter with my face?"

"Are you a performer? I think I have seen you before." She taps a finger on her lips, knowing his face, recognizing the name, and yet nothing to place them with.

"I play piano at the Paris Opera House. Have all season." He leans back, cracking his spine, intrigued. "You have seen me perform? How?"

"An older chap sometimes buys me for the night, letting me stay in a hotel for the evening if I accompany him to the performance. He dresses me up and simply wants me to hold his hand throughout. Oh, and we have the best view."

"How romantic," He coos, smiling softly with his eyes rolled to the side. "Seems he fancies you."

"Oh, no. No, no. He fancies that Christine Daae girl. Can't say I blame him, she is lovely. Ah, her voice, he coos over her voice." Ash's face contorts into shock and awe. Laurel begins to worry. "Is something the matter?"

"This man, your patron, does he wear a mask of any kind?"

"Oui. A white one with black detailing around the eyes. He seems to always wear a hooded jacket or a hat. To be honest, I thought you were him at first, voice and all. But, you are so much softer than him." She lifts his resting hand in hers. "His fingers are hard, calloused and like sandpaper. Yours are like a powder-puff." She cups her cheek in it.

Ash rubs her face with his thumb, biting his lip, hard. A small trickle of blood runs down his snowy skin. The crimson glow of fury spreads on his angular cheeks. Laurel starts to slide off his lap.

"This man, did he ever disclose a name to you? First? Last?" His voice remains smooth, calm. Laurel forgets her fear.

"Yes, sir. Erik Destler is what he said. He said, "I do not desire your body, only your company." He has not sought me out for so long, though. I fear he has forgotten about me." Ash lifts her and sets her on the carpet, holding her shoulders hard. "Ow . . . monsieur."

"I know this _Erik_ you speak of, Laurel," He seems out of breath, his chest heaving. "He may seem like a gentleman, and indeed he can be. But mark my words, he cannot be trusted."

"What? My good sir, he has kept me alive without demeaning me for years," She snaps.

"That may be true, but he is a snake. He promised me protection and wealth but all I have to show for it is blackmail and fear. My wife is being used against me, he is threatening her life. You think he won't harm you because you are a woman? Ha!" Ash releases her, gliding to the hearth and leaning on the stone.

"I have felt his hands, cold and calloused is right, around my very neck. I was hanged by him, was left to die! I was saved only to live on the edge of a knife for eternity. And now . . ." Laurel listens to his sobs in shock. Her sweet gentleman being such a horror to this kind man. She almost refuses to believe it. And yet, the sincerity in his words is too strong to ignore.

Laurel creeps up behind him, wrapping her arms around his torso gently. They embrace for what feels like eternity when he pulls her hands off him and turns.

"Forgive my outburst, Laurel. I know he will not harm you. You are beautiful and kind. Just . . . be careful. And, whatever you two do, do not touch his mask."

"Is he deformed?"

"Horrifically so, I am afraid."

"Very well." She places a chaste kiss on his cheek. "God speed, Ash."

"Yes . . . God speed." He collects his cloak and is gone.

#

Charity's gauzy white gown makes her eye candy for the male populace. Her golden band, however, drives them back just as much. Little Meg has clung to her all night, in her simple white tutu and whole mask. She wishes Ash was not a stubborn ass, her suit was going to be brilliant. Charity spins again before moving to the stairs to rest.

"Do you want a drink, Charity?"

"Not now, Meg. I just need to breathe." Meg settles beside her, leaning on the railing with her ankles crossed. Her inky eyes grow wide, staring at something over Charity's shoulder. Hesitantly, Charity turns her head to what she has been expecting all night.

The Red Death steps lightly down the threshold, his cape trailing behind him. His death's mask his held high, haughty, and proud under a wide scarlet hat and plume. Skeleton gloves rest on a crystal topped cane, his massive height towering head-and-shoulders over the crowd of black-&-white. A golden shimmer comes from the train of velvet cloth behind him, and Charity states from memory:

"Don't touch me! I am Red Death, stalking abroad."

One such masker dares to challenge this warning and lunges for the death's head. Charity hears the crack of his arm under the grip of the skeleton hand and almost laughs as the coward flies. He is searching for a black domino woman, and a white domino man, that Charity is certain of. He begins his stalking descent into the crowd. He stops.

He faces Charity, his gleaming eyes shining even through the holes of the mask. He bows slightly, holding his hand out. Charity places hers in it, curtsying in return. He presses his porcelain teeth against her glove, a small sound comes out of the holes in the mask. He kissed her hand.

"Madame."

"Monsieur . . ." A couple flees from the corner of her eyes and the horror overcomes her as the scarlet clad figure stalks away. He acknowledged her, treated her like a lady. He kissed her damned hand. Now everyone will think they know each other, think they are close to each other.

Everyone will think Ash is the Phantom.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"An evening that will go down in infamy", he says gliding down the stairs, boots echoing through the cavernous catacomb. How dare she. How _dare_ she! He gave her everything he could. Lessons, guidance, welcome arms and a beautiful home. As if rudely unmasking him months before was not horrible enough, now she plans to run away with that boy. A slave to the fashion of society! And his elder brother, a fop if he had ever seen one.

The absence of Monsieur Knight was a blessing at the Masque. The young man's wife was the best part. Ah, he will savor the look on her face for the rest of his life. But everyone else at the Masque now suspects something, or rather someone. Now their minds will turn to the identity of the Opera Ghost. He will not have to worry about anyone searching for his home ever again.

Because the poor, little American boy will take the blame.

#

Ash is taken back when she sees Charity sobbing against the mirror, muttering curses under her breath. She hangs her hat, cloak, and jacket, keeping her friend within her line of sight. Suddenly she regrets not going to the masquerade, but what was she to do? Only the Ghost knows what would have happened to her, and to Charity. She takes three steps to her friend and kneels.

"Cherry, what's wrong?" She pushes some of her friend's hair back. "Did something happen last night? Did someone . . .?"

"He was there, damn you!" Charity screeches, using her open palm to slap her square on the cheek. Ash falls back, her eyes watering from Charity's blow. She hates to admit it, but that small girl really packs a wallop. "The Ghost was there. He . . . he kissed my hand, he bowed to me like I was a princess, he . . ."

"He what?"

"Ash, the managers are searching for you. They have the police. He convinced them that you are the Phantom of the opera. By acknowledging me, they think you are him." Ash, still rubbing the developing welt on her face, starts to hyperventilate.

"I didn't do anything wrong, though. I—I . . . they can't just turn on me like that! I haven't done a thing!" She grabs the nearest object, one of Charity's shoes, and chucks it at the mirror. "You hear me, you bastard? I . . . ugh . . ." Ash feels nausea hit her fast, retching on the floor between herself and Charity before she can think.

"Christ! Ash, what the hell?" Charity steps over the puddle of vomit, getting behind Ash as she mutters through the puke leaking from her mouth. Where did that even come from? Ash doesn't eat much, let alone anything green. And, is that shrimp? "Gross . . ."

"I feel weird."

The door bursts open and Charity, expecting the worse, looks up in defeat. The figure in the doorway is not who she expected.

#

"Is everyone in here alright? By Allah!" The Daroga looks at the mess before the couple, his dark skin taking on a green tint. "What happened?" Charity stands her ill husband to his feet, her face wet from tears and wild with worry. "Madame, Monsieur?"

"The Opera Ghost tricked us!" Charity sobs leaning on the cleaner part of Ashton's shirt. "We though, just once, we might be alright, but . . ."

"I tried to warn you, Madame Knight. As for your husband, there is a group of policemen led by Philippe and Raoul de Chagny coming for him. I suggest to two of you come with me if you don't want to become a widow, my lady." Charity starts to blush. The Daroga notes the cocked brow from Ashton is not angry, like one would expect, but surprised. Perhaps even intrigued.

The young man's sudden groan and paled face brings the Daroga away from his staring.

"Why is he so ill? Did he ingest something foul?" To make up for her husband's silence, Charity nods rapidly.

"Yes, I believe so. Please, the Ghost has been kind to us up until this point. What did we do to him?" The Daroga shrugs, shaking his head.

"It is difficult to say," He glances into the hall, gasping as the small groups checks the room just five doors down. "He is a strange man, the only constant with him. If something doesn't go his way he goes into panic." The Daroga listens to the scurry behind him, praying that god will allow him to disobey the only institution he respects.

Charity lays her hand on the Daroga's shoulder, her husband still looking pale but holding his own enough to carry a strange looking bag. "We have everything we'll need," Her eyes flicker to Ashton, "and then some." The last part comes out as a grunt. He takes her hand, she takes her husband's, and he rushes them away from the angry shouts behind them.

"I'm going to hurl again, Cherry."

"Hold it in, Ashy. Swallow it."

"Uh . . ." There is a gagging sound, and a gulp. Then a light giggle.

"Shut up," comes Ashton's gruff hiss. The Daroga scrunches his face oddly; the strange phrasings used by the young lady and her spouse intrigue him. And, why the giggling at the insinuation of swallowing? It only takes a moment of though for something to click in his mind, his dark skin taking a new, red hue to it.

For such a lady to be making that vulgar of an insinuation. It is unheard of in his home land. It is odd, but it does not seem to bother her husband, so he will not let it bother him. The last thing he needs is to make the man who Erik has hurt so much resent him. He listens to their uneven footsteps echo throughout the opera, nearly masking the shouting of the police and the Viscount from behind them.

#

Disappeared? Under _his_ watchful eyes? Inconceivable! He is tearing at his hair, growling and wondering how that American could have possibly slipped from the opera house without anyone seeing him, or his wife. He should have guessed that Ashton would be slippery, from how seamlessly he snuck into La Carlotta's dressing room to his invisibility whenever he was not needed by either the opera staff or himself.

And the girl? Surly beautiful, young, bubbly Charity was not aware of her husband's eel-like nature. Though bright in her own right, a lot seems to pass completely unnoticed by her. Lustful stares, jealous glares, and the way Philippe de Chagny would dance around her and her husband because of his own brother's hatred for the couple. Philippe, being the patron, is not easy to miss after all. Surrounded by ballerinas, the managers, Sorelli. No, Charity might go along with her husband, but she does _not_ know exactly why he acts the way he does.

Wait? Sorelli took interest in Ashton earlier this year, did she not? Yet, she and Philippe are still together, at least in private . . . or rather as private as they can be in an opera house. Philippe would be completely unaware of his partner's promiscuous yearnings if he is never around Ashton or Charity.

There might be something he can do about that . . . after all, if the count himself shared the same desperate need to eliminate Ashton Knight as he needs to . . .

The Ghost smiles at his brilliant plan. Tell the count that his relationship is threatened, and Knight is beheaded by the end of the week. He grabs his mask and coat with swift movement. Christine will be his, Knight will be out of the way, and the beautiful Charity will nurture his child perfectly.

Everything is falling into place.

#

Somewhere dark and damp, yet warm and nurturing, something strange starts to form. It isn't human, not quite yet anyway. It began to form weeks ago, still a little blob deep within. Soon, it will have form, a beat that can be felt outside it. Eventually, it shall have function, be fully alive for the time to come that it will enter the world.

Kicking and screaming.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

"Philippe! Darling, why are you hurting me?" Sorelli feels the tears streaming down her face, but the pain in her wrists from Philippe's angered grip is more than she can take or understand. He, too, has tears on his cheeks, eyes red from them, but his is in fury, pent up and finally bursting.

"Did you? Did you sleep with him?" Philippe feels the paper in his waistcoat growing heavy with his hatred, with his hurt, yet he tried to be civil with her, to get the truth without laying a finger. He knows she lied to him, about her relationship with the American, with Ashton. And he was naïve enough to believe that man was his friend. His _friend_!

"I never slept with Ashton Knight! I swear on my life, Philippe." She looks down, sees just how weak his is in the knees, and uses her foot to knock him to the ground. As he writhes on the ground, Sorelli rips the sheet of paper from her lover's pocket and unfolds it.

 _Comte Philippe De Chagny,_

 _I see it as my duty to inform you that lover, La Sorelli, the Prima Ballerina, has not been entirely faithful to you throughout your relationship. I realize you wish to keep your matters private, but my soul daren't pass on while this information was in my grasp._

 _Two days after the pianist, Monsieur Ashton Knight, came to the Opera, she was seen slipping into his quarters, soon followed by the young man, and did not exist for a good amount of time. When she did emerge, her clothes and hair were disheveled, and she was in quite the hurry to return to her own room._

 _I know it is painful to think the woman you love would do such vial things with a man neither of you know well, but seeing how he as his bride made no effort to hide their sexual explorations from the populace of the house . . . well, I will let you draw your own conclusions._

 _~A Concerned Friend_

"You think me such a whore that you believe this?" Philippe sits up, still rubbing the backs of his knees from her hard kick. "Do you know this pen, Philippe? How do you know this isn't some cruel jest?" She turns the writing toward him. "I thought you trusted me," she hiccups as her voice becomes more and more incomprehensible.

Philippe's attention, however, is not on his lady love, but rather on the familiarity of the penmanship. The managers had shown him, many a time, the notes the infamous Opera Ghost threatened them and the entire cast of the opera with. Suddenly, his baby brother's obsession with Knight starts to make sense.

 _He's responsible for all this, Philippe, I can feel it._

"Raoul was right . . ." He stands and gently moves Sorelli out of his way. He starts to dress, his finest, knowing it is his duty as patron to the opera to be at every performance, no matter the situation.

He has a specter to catch, as soon as the final performance unfolds.

#

The Daroga watches as Ashton Knight lies wriggling in bed for a second night. Darius, his loyal servant, rubs the boy's forehead with a warm, damp cloth, him lying on his back in nothing but a nightdress and boxers. His wife has not left his side except to use facilities, her dedication to her spouse making the Daroga smile, even when he does not realize it.

He has had to remind himself often then past few days that she is married, and therefore untouchable, but the fact that she does not seem to _act_ like she and Ashton are married, and Ashton seems more interested in her actions around the Daroga than stopping her makes him uneasy. He hates to imagine what kind of punishment she would receive back home.

"This is more than mere indigestion or dysentery, Master." Darius sighs pouring the Daroga a glass of Jasmine tea in the lounge. "The symptoms don't match any typical ailment I can come up with. At least, not for any man." The Daroga waves him away, ignoring Darius' well intended words to stare at the fireplace and sip his drink.

Darius walks up the stairs of the apartment, holding a tray with tea for the Missus Knight and honey-milk for the Mister. And before he enters the room, he hears whispers. He freezes, knowing that it is extremely rude to listen in on conversation, but once he hears the word "kidnap", his ear is pressed against the door.

"How long do we have before her kidnap?"

"The performance starts at eight, she's taken during the _Jewel Song_ , I believe. He will black out the stage, and she'll be gone. He'll take her down five cellars, to the house by the Lake. And from there . . ."

"The final act begins."

#

Ash stares at the ceiling of the Daroga's master bedroom, curtains of violet and gold surround the massive bed, obscuring her views of the room, but she knows ten feet from the end of the bed, a wardrobe glossed by the open window, and a door twelve feet to her left, closed. Cherry fell asleep by the fireplace, in a large armchair she managed to squeeze her whole body into.

The pain in her abdomen has subsided for now, so she slides from under the comforter, places her feet on the cold, wooden floor, and stands for the first time in nearly 50 hours. Her bones crackle as she moves toward her sleeping friend, her eyes focused on the two bags, her own backpack and Charity's ballet duffle. Sitting silently, she places Charity's duffle on her lap and begins frisking the sack.

The main compartment just has some clothing, shoes, and period pads. Ash chokes down a laugh seeing those, now knowing her friend carried them simply as a façade and to help her when the time came. But that is why she is searching the bag. Pads are not the only part of Charity's fertility illusion. She has seen the other before, it left her in a panic.

"I thought you were pregnant, Cherry," Her hand slides in the side pocket, feeling mechanical pencils and graphite packages, the occasional slip of crumpled paper. Growling in discontent, she zips the pocket back and searches one of the two end ones.

"I was worried. That bastard poked a hole in every condom he used, just to try and get you stuck with him. Catholics don't normally have abortions, after all." Her hand is met with emptiness, and she concludes the last one is where she will find it.

"But now I know it was all a ruse, all a ploy so that no one would know how lucky you really are. You think infertility is a curse?" Deftly, she removes the packaged pregnancy test and closes the bag once more. It thuds when it falls off her lap, but Charity is a heavier sleeper than she will ever admit, and it goes unnoticed by the girl. Ash slips into the joining bathroom and looks over her shoulder at her best friend, the prickle of tears burning the corner of her eyes.

"It's a goddamn _blessing_!" And she closes the door.

#

Christine's disappearance happens mere minutes after Ash takes the test. She sobs in the foyer of a house she once felt as her own home, tied to a chair she once enjoyed meals and conversation in. The wound on her head still throbs, but she tried, oh how she tried. Escape impossible, she had thought ending her own life would be the only way out of this.

But the pain in Erik's face, his horrid face, and the tears that tried to escape his eyes . . . had she tried again she knows he would have either followed in her steps or destroyed everything. Erik has been gone for a while, now, rambling on about their wedding mass or the requiem march he had composed, and how final preparations must be made.

"Loose ends to tie," he had said. And now, throbbing skull cannot prevent the fear from rising in her about what "loose ends" he has left unknotted. Perhaps a witness he does not wish to snitch. Perhaps the rat catcher, useful as he is, has reached his last bit of time.

Or perhaps . . . no. No, he would never . . . he'd _never_. Christine screams against the gag, thinking of the monstrous things he could do to the little American girl he has pretended is his wife, of what his cold, skeletal hands could do to that girl no older than she. Her sorrow bubbles up in heart-wrenching sobs as her name plays in her mind.

Charity Knight . . .

#

"You will come with me to Erik's den and you _will_ help me bring Christine back." Is what Raoul would have demanded of the Persian had the man not already come up to him at his home and said nearly the same in an angered tone. Raoul is astonished to say the least. His original plans shaken, he invites the Persian and the manservant inside where the rain cannot attack them further.

"I would also like to express my deepest condolences on the disappearance of your elder brother, the Count."

"Forgive my skepticism, monsieur, as you've always seemed to be on _his_ side."

"His side? Poppycock, boy. Erik and I used to be . . . I suppose _friends_ would be the word, though it is rather loosely used in this situation. I know Erik well, well enough to help you get to his home without killing the both of us." The manservant offers to take the Persian's rain-soaked robes, but he waves him off.

"I see. And what of Ashton Knight? I have my suspicions about that boy. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if he _is_ . . ."

"Ashton cannot be the Opera Ghost, you fool." The Persian snaps, "For one, he is much too young as I am nearing sixty and Erik is not much younger than I. Secondly, he is weak, ill from something I cannot describe, brought upon him by cooperation with Erik purely for the sake of his life and the life of his . . ." Raoul blinks at the Persian's hesitation. "His wife."

The Persian's manservant receives a whisper from a stranger and the man's face falls.

"Mother of God."

"Is something the matter, Darius?"

"Ma—master, Lady Knight has sent a courier to inform you that her husband has vanished off the face of the earth. There is no trace of Ashton anywhere in the apartment or the surrounding area."

"What? Did he leave a note, a clue, anything?" The Persian is standing now, grasping Darius by the shoulders while Raoul sits in silence.

"He did leave a note, yes. In scratchy English that Lady Knight translated for me. Such a sweet woman," He unfolds a slip of paper the courier gave him. "He says, 'I hate to leave you like this, Daroga. You've been so kind to me, not knowing what I am or what I've done. You deserve to know the truth, and I will start with this. My marriage to Charity is not legal. I trust this will please you the most . . .'"

#

Ash makes her way down to the Rue Morgue, her white shirt billowing in the wind, hanging off her shoulders, saturated with water, her chest free of any bindings simply hidden by the folds of her shirt, her boots stamping in the puddles as she descends to the sewers of Paris.

Her letter . . . Charity will find it first, probably freak out or wish her harm. Then, she will have to tell the Daroga, she cannot help herself. After he knows, he will both be disgusted at what she is and be glad that he now has a chance with Charity. Perhaps something good will come from this nightmare, though the marriage will be strange. Their ages just rub her the wrong way.

Ash flattens her hand against the wall to her right and prays to any god that decides to listen she does not die before she can make it to the house.

#

The bang of the door slamming shut brings Christine out of her lull. Light steps become louder as they approach the foyer door. The knob jumps up and down until the person manages to unlock the door. It opens slowly and the person slips in silently.

"Christine," Ashton smiles in relief, "You're alright. Excellent." He starts to fiddle in his pockets, muttering about a knife being somewhere. Christine tries to scream. "What? Christine, no. Be quiet, please." He rushes forward, clasps his thin hands over her gag, shushing her and staring at the door in intervals. "Do you want to get us both killed? He could be back any moment!"

Christine growls at him from under the cloth.

"Sorry," He pulls the gag down, "What did you say?"

"I said, you are already here, _Erik_." Ashton steps back, his expression cold, the life pooling out of his eyes. Christine scowls at him while his chest heaves under the drying cloth of his shirt. A pang of guilt hit when she sees a tear prickling from the corner of his eye.

"This again? Really? I have to deal with this _shit again!_ " He advances on her, straddling her lap, griping her shoulders so tight she feels they may start to bleed, his flaming golden eyes inches from hers. "I am not Erik. I didn't even know his name is Erik for the longest time. Is that not enough for you people?" His lip trembles.

"Why argue against what we all know to be true? How loud did your "loose end" scream when you turned on her, Erik? Did she beg, did she ask for mercy that you never gave? How could you harm a girl like Charity?"

"What? I could never lay a hand on Charity . . . I love her." Ashton stands turns from Christine, pulling on his hair with white knuckles. Christine can almost hear something in the young man's head snap as he turns to her with a speed even Erik would find inhuman. The color has left his eyes, they are flat and dead.

"But, it's pretty obvious you don't believe me. Right? Well . . ." He takes the collar of his shirt in his hands. "Believe me now?" It tears open, revealing small, but obviously prominent female breasts. Christine's jaw drops, fighting her reflex to shield her eyes at the sight of another woman's naked torso. Woman . . . Ashton's a woman.

"Ashton, I . . . I never would have . . ."

"Or maybe, maybe this isn't enough for you. I know how _particular_ people can be with this. After all, I could be Erik in some strange body suit, right? It could all be a big old trick. Me trying to fool you into thinking I'm your friend or something." Ashton grabs the nearest oil lamp and rips the compartment from the bottom. "Only one way to know for certain, I guess."

"Ashton, no!"

She pours the oil on the side of her face, much of the liquid flowing down to her chest, saturating on the shirt threads hanging over her bosom. She pulls something small and metal from her pocket, setting it aflame and holding it to the dripping cheek.

"If it melts, you win. If it burns, _I win_."

Her screams drown out Christine's by a full decibel by the time Erik returns to the home.

#

Charity holds the plastic tube tightly as the carriage jostles her side-to-side. She waited two hours, Raoul and the Daroga should be in the torture chamber by now, the traps will be deactivated, making her path to the home safe. Ash needs to know, if she can get there in time. Maybe she will safe her best friend's life, maybe she will drive her best friend to her grave. But Ash _must know._

Two vertical lines on the little screen. Ash is pregnant.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

"You are fortunate to be alive after what you've done." Ash opens her eyes slowly, painfully, only to find her left eye is the only one to obey. She hears water and feels a cool cloth touch her chest and shoulders, the liquid seeping through some unseen barrier. She knows who is tending her, and she turns her glare to the Opera Ghost who kneels beside her.

Ash mutters a curse, but is muffled. Erik, noticing her struggle, chuckles softly. He taps his mask, over where his lips would be, and taps her in the same spot. She feels the pressure of his touch, but not his skin. Ash tries to grab at his face, but a pain shoots through her right arm, and she shouts, arching her back with her arm slamming on a plush cloth.

"They're called burns, my rather crispy young friend. From here," Ash feels his bony finger prodding just at her hairline, "To here," She feels him trace his finger along the bottom of her ribcage, eye popping open as she searches his face for anything that might give her the answer she desperately needs.

 _Do you know I'm a woman?_

"Christine was insistent that I keep you from melting before her. She then gave me a rather . . . lengthy scolding after somehow figuring my plans for you. In fact, she even cursed me . . . in Swedish. That was interesting. However, the damage is irreversible. You did this to yourself, young man."

 _Young man? Are you playing with me, or are you still clueless?_

"But, that is all behind us now," His voice seems to lighten, become almost childlike in tone. "Christine has agreed to marry me, and we shall live in peace, as man and wife . . . just as it was meant to be." Erik combs his hair back with a sigh, and slowly meets her eye. "And you, my friend . . . you get to live the same hell I have for so many years. Well, that is," he leans down and wraps a long hand around her thin, defenseless neck. " _If_ I let you—"

"Erik, darling? We have a guest." His body grows ridged, he does not wish for his living bride to see him like this. Ash cocks her brow in smug triumph as he stands and exits her line of sight. "Shall I tend to your friend, Erik?" Her voice is timid with a knowing edge. Ash can hear Erik's awkward shuffle as he, quietly, stammers before answering. He does not wish to disappoint her.

"If you so desire, Christine." The door closes, a lighter set of steps approach her. Taking the spot of Erik, Christine sits on the side of the bed, her face red from tears, eyes still bloodshot.

"You fell unconscious at my feet, I had to beg Erik to carry your smoldering body to the lake to douse you. Your torso, you . . . your _face_. I'm so sorry, Ashton. I wish we could help you, but . . . you'll never look the way you used to."

Ash sits up, pain ripping through her torso, and swings her legs to the side. _No! No!_

 _Daddy, look! I'm Snow White._

 _Yes you are, Ashy Marie. You look wonderful, little princess._

She feels cloth being pushed onto her shoulders, Christine's short legs following Ash's every step through the dark room, sliding one of—she assumes—Erik's shirts on her body. She falls against a piece of furniture, something hard and cold.

"Here, off the coffin, off the coffin. Can't risk getting blood on Erik's bed, can we?"

Christine's words go in one ear and out the other. Ash pushes off the coffin, toward the light under what must be the door. She hobbles, flails, and falls, but she makes it to the door, leaning against the knob as she hears.

"Monsieur, I need to see my husband. I have news for him."

 _Cherry!_ She busts the door open.

#

"Madame, your husband is . . ." Charity hears a loud thud from down the hallway, a door opening and something collapsing on the ground. "Damn."

"Ash!" She pushes the Opera Ghost out of her way, surprising him to no end, rushing down from the foyer down the hall to a large family room, where the pipe organ rests to the far right and a door to its left stands open. And a long, pale hand lays, wrapped up in bloodied bandages, scrambling for a grip on the hardwood floor.

"Ashton . . ." Charity walks slowly around the door, amazed to see Christine Daaé lifting her up off the ground as carefully as humanly possible. "Now, don't rush yourself, sweetie. You—you'll hurt yourself." Ash pushes her away, standing on her own, but not steadily. And when she is straight, Charity has the horror of seeing her bloodied and broken.

The only visible part of Ash's face is her left eye, the remainder covered in gauzy cloth, blood seeping through. The white trails down her neck, to her torso, but stops right at her bellybutton. And her arm, her entire right arm, completely covered. She reaches for Charity with her mummified arm, and Charity jumps back in instinct. Ash pulls into herself and pulls the overlong shirt tightly about her.

Ash reaches up and touches the covered half of her face with her hand, shaking as a red tear trails down her exposed cheek. She mutters, her mouth covered, but Charity has been around her long enough, and she knows Ash's thoughts. She embraces Ash as though she were a delicate glass doll, head on her bare shoulder.

"You are not a monster. This isn't your fault."

Ash mutters again.

"What is she saying, Charity?" Christine asks in a whisper. Charity shakes her head.

"I was unaware that the good sir was well enough to walk," Charity turns, using her small frame as a shield not to protect Ash, but to protect Erik _from_ Ash. She is screaming at him through the gauze, shouting obscenities and threats only Charity can translate. "Well enough to walk _and_ try and assault me. Seems like my care was sufficient then."

"Your care, from the very beginning, caused all this!" Charity rushes him, prodding him on the shoulder, standing on her tiptoes to be eye to chin with him. Erik eyes her ferocity as if she were a small cat, growling and clawing without doing any real damage. He seems entertained by her angered rant. Ash decides she has had enough of his foolishness.

She rips at the cloth wrapped around her mouth, tearing healing flesh, creating new wounds where they had begun to heal, her nails leaving deep gnashes in her chin and lips. Erik's eyes fill with terror as, blood flowing to the floor, teeth bared like fangs, an inhumanly wide half-grin advances on him, takes him by the lapel, and a voice chilling as winter and stinking of death and rot shrieks;

"What have I ever done to you!?" Her sobs vibrate the entire upper of her body, her grip tightening as her knees give below her. Pain shoots through her entire body, making her cries more childlike as she breaks down at his feet. She relinquishes her grip on his jacket to embrace herself tightly, pressing the top of her head against his shins. "I never did . . . _anything_ to you. I don't even _know_ you."

"I'm aware of that, Ashton."

"Then why? Why me, why Charity? Why . . .?" Breathing becomes too much of a labor for her, and her whisper is never heard. He considers her questions while she heaves for air.

"I have to have reasons? Hmm, I never considered that. Reasons, reasons?" He taps the chin of his mask, enjoying the crumpled up person at his feet experiencing pain a little too much, even for him. He cannot lay a finger on it, but there is something about this young man that does irk him to no end. He rakes his hair back, glancing at Christine and Charity, seeing worry in both faces and anger deep in the brunette girl's eyes.

"Answer he— _him_ , Erik. He deserves to know something." Christine's emphasis on the pronoun goes over Erik's head, and he nods in compliance.

"You are everything I could never be, and we'll leave it at _that_. Madame Knight, I believe my dear friend, the Daroga, wishes to escort you back to his flat. I will send your husband to you after a couple of days."

"I want to stay with Ash, Monsieur."

"I know, I know. But it would be rather difficult to me to tend to him and prepare for my wedding in two different locations. No, until Christine and I are wed before God, he will have to stay here. No arguments either."

#

She wants to wear dresses, have her curls coil down her back, paint her lips and add rogue to her cheeks for the first time in ages. She despises her sudden yearning for femininity, but sees it as her only comfort. She has been locked in Erik's bedroom for hours, and she stares at her reflection in his mirror with stinging eyes and a throbbing heart.

 _I want my Mommy. I want my Daddy. I want my brother!_ Images dance in her third eye; a woman with lush black hair and sultry green eyes dancing while her bronze skin darkens in the sun; a man with brown curls and eyes like the eclipse playing on his violin as the moon radiates off his milky skin; a young boy, hair like chocolate and skin like copper, one green and one brown eye sparkling in glee as he spins on the grass.

And suddenly all these memories are engulfed in flames. She slaps the good side of her face and starts chanting their names as she paces the floor.

"Reginald . . . Althea . . . Alex . . . Reginald . . . Althea . . . Alex . . ." Her mantra continues until she exhausts herself, her memories pushed back so far she couldn't recall her mother's face if she tried, though she could imagine her mother's corpse burning in the accidental fire the robbers left. Fire . . . why is it always _fire_?

She collapses on the bed, wrapping the blanket around her body as it coils around itself. She thinks of another place and drifts away as the final act of the ghost's love story unfolds.

#

She is gone, and with her his wedding band and every hope and dream he has had. Well, almost every dream. There is still the possibility of Charity carrying his child, and he prays her beauty will override whatever made him the horror he is. He wraps his arms around himself, forehead resting on his knees. His breathing is unusually raspy, but he supposes it is from the silent wailing he had done earlier this night.

It seem so . . . surreal. Nothing tonight went as he had prayed they would. Nothing. He wanted his bride, and the bright promise of no more suffering, no more hatred. No more _Phantom_. But that _wretched boy_! He had to grow a conscience, he had to spoil everything with his sudden bought of madness, he had to create a problem where there was none to be had.

Now Erik has a possible child on the way, and a newly deformed _infant_ to raise. He chortles at the thought of Ashton becoming the Opera Ghost, that way Erik can spend his last few years or so in peace. The young man is rather awkward and gangly, so the silent specter is not really in the cards for his future occupation. Yet, he sees that there is no other choice for the boy. Charity will care for the baby, if there ever is one, leaving Ashton to be the lowly bachelor of the opera.

Still, Erik supposes that it could be worse. He cannot think of how at the moment, but he is certain this is as bad as his situation will become. Realizing that the bedroom has been deathly quiet for the last few hours, he stands, brushes off his wrinkled trousers, and makes his way to the door. It creaks a bit when he cracks it open, but he can see the boy from where he stands.

Ashton's exposed cheek is red and wet, his eyes are closed tightly, and his remaining lip is moving rapidly. Erik can barely hear it, yet he is certain that Ashton is speaking in his sleep. Pushing the door so he can fit through, Erik creeps forward, focusing on Ashton's mouth, trying to understand what the young man is muttering.

"Sorry . . . sorry . . . sorry . . ." Erik pulls the vanity stool over by the side of the bed, listening to Ashton whisper "sorry" over and over again. He watches the young man's burnt chest rise and fall rapidly with every whimpered word, his thin lips move franticly like his life depends on this word being known. "Sorry . . . I didn't . . . save you . . ."

"Whom did you fail to save?" Erik goes to pinch the bridge of his "nose" when he realizes that his mask is still on. Somewhat difficult to pinch porcelain. He reaches in his hair and unties the knot at the back of his head. He lays it on the bedside table and sighs. He lays his face in his hands, rubbing his eyes and brow with the tips of his fingers. He groans when he realizes he feels sympathy for the crumpled form beside him. "Damn . . ." He smacks his forehead and stands.

No, he is too old for this. Been through too much for this one person to alter anything about him. This child knows nothing of his suffering, nothing of his pain. He thinks he can try and guilt Erik into saving him when no one was there for . . .

Erik realizes he is crying when he feels mucus run over his mouth. He grabs for a handkerchief and covers the lower part of his face, forcing his breath to comply, forcing his eyes to dry. "You're a grown man . . . act like one, dammit." He looks to the mirror and is shocked to discover the bed behind him is vacant, but the space beside him is not.

The mucus is gone, but he knows what Ashton is staring at. He flinches, expecting the worse. A trickle of lightning seems to rake his spine when Ashton gasps.

"You look . . . like my little brother."


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

"Your . . . _brother_?" Erik lowers his hand, flattening it on the vanity. "You have a family."

"Had."

"Right, the, um . . . the fire." He rubs the back of his neck, a voice scolding him for forgetting such a major detail of the boy's life.

"Took my father and brother when I was young. Then my mother just under a year ago," Ashton shivers, pulling the shirt tighter on his shoulders. He starts to button it as Erik realizes the boy stole his clothes. Normally, he would be furious. Thieves never sat well with him, but in this case he will make an acceptation. He highly doubts that Ashton took it on his own, anyway.

"And your brother looked . . . like _this_?" Ashton scratches at his bare cheek and nods slowly.

"Born or . . .?"

"Not born, no. Before his death, Alex had fallen down a rather tall hill at high speeds, scrapped most of his face off. We couldn't afford any sort of surgery, so we had him taken out of school, and Mother taught him at home. He grew accustomed to the isolation, he never really had friends beforehand, and he had me to bother endlessly. It was peaceful." Ashton starts rubbing his bandaged cheek.

"It'll never heal if you keep picking at it, Ashton."

"They physical wounds or the mental?" Erik raises an eyebrow ( _He doesn't have eyebrows! What the hell?_ ), taking Ashton's hand in his and pulling it down. "Ah . . ." He stares at his bandaged hand, turning it and flexing the fingers in random positions. "Shouldn't the tendons have been tightened? I mean, my fingers should be stuck in a certain position, right? From my exper . . . _research_ , fire typically does a lot more damage that what was done to me."

"The further from the fuel the flame is the weaker the power. Your fuel was on your chest and cheek, your hands and arms were barely scathed in comparison to the rest of you. Your arm should heal within a month. The rest of you . . . hmm . . . that might take a while."

"A few months?"

"Quite a few, actually." There are a few seconds of awkward silence. Erik stares at Ashton's face in the mirror as the boy keeps studying his bandaged features. He lets out a breath as Ashton opens his mouth.

"So . . . what's your plan? You always seem to have one." Erik takes the boy by the shoulder and turns him so they are face-to-face.

"I am tired. Tired of this life, this job, if you will. So tired of this darkened existence."

"You're very melodramatic, Ghost." Erik ignores him.

"I want to leave this house, for good, and move into the little cottage I built outside my birth town. There, I shall live out the remainder of my life in peace and sunlight." Ashton taps his lower lip remnants, uttering something about that being a nice idea. "However, I don't want to leave you in the dust, and I would rather not take you with me . . ."

"Ha!"

"Therefore, until your burns are healed enough for you to care for them yourself, I shall be your teacher. I will train you in all that I know, and you will become the new Phantom of the Opera."

"You devious . . . I don't _want_ to be the Phantom, I want to go home!"

"You can't return to the outside world, you great booby. What'll you do with your life, eh? Work in the freak show? I can tell you from experience that you'll be welcomed with open arms as long as you open your legs! Willingly or not."

"I'll be a writer, or an artist. Van Gogh had a physical deformity."

"He cut off a part of his ear, not burnt half of his body." Erik chuckles, crossing his arms as he knows he has left the boy with no choice. Ashton grips at his head, grinds his teeth, and finally shoves his hands in his pockets. His eyes widen suddenly.

"Just . . . let me use the facilities and I'll . . . think about it." Erik nods, though eyes the boy as he makes his way to the hall and into the powder room. Erik, meanwhile, walks over to the small end table and opens the small drawer. He wonders, holding the bandages up, how much longer Ashton thinks he can fool Erik.

Erik shakes his head. _Still using the wrong words, you fool_. He hears the lock click and grins. He imagines Ashton's routine, how it felt every day wrapping these around and around until perfectly flat. Being referred to in a way that you are not used to on the daily. Hiding your real voice, real body. He imagines how horrified Ashton must have been that one week a month when he would claim ill and only appear to perform.

"She'll tell you in her own time, Erik. Or, perhaps, you could inform her you know. But . . . how?"

#

"Oh gods . . . ohgodsohgodsohgods . . . oh _shit_!" Ash clasps her hand over her mouth, cringing at the sharp pain she has created for herself, and stares at the door. She really hopes he did not hear that little outburst, not now, not ever, not . . . _goddammit_

She holds the plastic tube out like it might bite her, and she is certain that it will bite her. Right in the ass. Two lines, both a pleasant pink shade, have just given her the most bittersweet news of her life. The good news, the Ghost will get the child he wants after all. Bad news, her virginal self is carrying said child. Ash knows she technically volunteered for this, but she remembers her cousin, Katrina, and how early her child, Matilda was born nearly two months early, and in hospital for nearly three months afterward.

What if this child is the same? The hospitals in the 19th Century are nowhere near as advanced as they are in her time. _No, this is my time, now. And I have to deal with the consequences of these actions. Besides, even if I could have an abortion, no way in hell it'd be safe, and_ he _wouldn't react well at all._

She feels the flatness of her bandaged chest, touches, lightly, the covered half of her face, the stiffness of her arm. "I am not capable of being a mother, not in this state. Not now . . . not-not now." She fights the wail that begs to escape her lungs and clenches her fists. The popping of her knuckles tells her she is gripping too tight and she makes the necessary noises to make him think she used the toilet and exits.

#

Ashton enters his line of vision with eyes red as the midday sun. She must have been crying, of course, who could blame her in her situation. He is sure he would be bawling by now. Erik takes notice of the thin trails of blood down her palms and takes long strides to meet her.

"You're injured, Ashton. How did that happen?"

"What? Oh. I didn't even notice." Her voice is even. He recognizes the stillness of her voice, for he has used it many a times, especially in the Shah's Court. Emotionally compromised, Ashton walks slowly passed him, to the hearth, and stares at the flames.

"Doesn't it hurt, child?"

"No, not really." She opens her palms enough for the cloth to fall into her hand and balls them up again. Preventing injury or a way to block it out, he does not know, he doubts he even _wants_ to know. But she is in emotional distress, and he knows now what happens when she has a meltdown. He looks down at his own gloved hands and wrings them.

"Have you thought about my offer any more, Ashton?"

"Yes, I have. After considering all the alternatives, I have decided my best path is to accept your offer. I'll be the new Opera Ghost."

#

Raoul has refused to leave his room for the past two days. He routinely goes from his bed to his chair by the fireplace, to the photograph of him and Phillippe, and back again. That room, Erik's horror of a mirrored _tomb_. He wakes in cold sweat and feeling the itch of sand-rashes on his legs, arms and backside. He sleeps looking at the single metal tree, reflected on the octagonal walls, and the noose that looks even more welcoming than it did in person.

He thinks about that girl, the one who was burnt so severely, and after the horrible way he treated her. He just wants to go back to that first day, when Ashton first came into the opera in her ragamuffin clothes, her innocent eyes and friendly smile. He wants to start over, begin a friendship that might have saved her from becoming the monster he feared she was. The monster Erik convinced him she was. He wants his brother back, too.

Sure, he can put up the act of outstanding Count de Chagny when duty calls. He can be regal, level headed, poised, but there is something the newspapers and gossipmongers seem to ignore. There was twenty years difference between his brother and him. There is no way in hell he can handle the estate and social standings his family has accumulated. He just turned 21, still just a boy.

"I can't do this . . . I can't . . . I can't." His matted brown hair falls over his dull eyes, his once trimmed and clean facial hair a tangled, oily mess. The thought goes through his mind that his father would be disgraced if he knew what Raoul looked like right now. He chuckles when he realizes he does not give a damn about his father anymore. He stands, the fire from the hearth dancing in his eyes, and lets out a cleansing breath.

His mind shifts to the girl again, the one who so cleverly fooled the world into believing she was male. What will happen to her, and her wife . . . her _friend_ , Charity? God, poor Charity. He does believe she knew Ashton was female from the very start, and their little act did keep the young dancer safe from any unwanted advances from the fly-men. What will happen to the two of them now? He supposes Charity will move on with her life in the roll of a mourning widow, perhaps marry _legally_ , though to whom is up for speculation. But Ashton, with the amount of scaring on her body, the only realistic future for her would be a circus freak or . . .

Raoul stands straight as a board, his eyes wide in anger and horror as the realization dawns on him like a red sun.

"Mother of God!"

#

Alexander Knight was born a healthy, happy, and beautiful boy. From the time he was three months old, he would go wherever he could without any supervision, crawling with speed unknown to infants of his age group. He could walk before he hit a year, and his sister was the happiest person in the house when he took his first step. She took his fat hands and tried to get him to dance with her, ending in both of them on the floor, giggling madly.

Alex knew that his sister was very pretty before he knew what pretty was. Mommy always had her dressed in laced skirts and her black curls braided down to her rear. Daddy would give her shorts and shirts for roughing around the house, but Alex could tell she wanted to wear them everywhere. He would never see her wearing masculine clothing in public.

When Alex was six, and Ashy was ten, they had pushed their scooters up the top of the tallest hill in the woods. Alex wanted to go down, to see what would happen, if he would keep balance. Ashy, though originally excited and glad he had the idea, got cold feet as she looked down. She shook her head, and told him not to even think about it.

He did not feel his face peel off, but he did feel the rocks lodge into the muscle that should have been underneath.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

The Daroga is not surprised very easily. After seeing Erik's face and learning of his son's passing, nothing to this day has ever taken him back. However, all records are meant to be broken, and so when the new Count de Chagny burst through the apartment door without warning, Charity was not the only one shrieking and tossing books in the air. His reaction would have made Raoul laugh if he had not been there on serious business.

"Charity, we need to talk. It's about Ashton."

"She's staying with Erik until she is healed, and then she'll come home. His words not mine." Charity leans down and collects her book, muttering about losing her page and how she is going to kill the Count.

"As much as I would _love_ to believe him, there is no prerequisite for such foolishness and, answer me this, what will happen to her when she returns? What job could she acquire? I highly doubt she could become a teacher or a nanny with her new problems. And even if she were to continue presenting as male, what would _he_ do? Charity, there is no feasible . . ."

"She can live with me. Erik gave us more than enough to get away from Paris and find a nice, isolated place of our own," Raoul notices a fall in the Daroga's expression, "We can stay away from people. I'll go into town, she can work from the house. We'll manage, we always have."

Raoul clasps his hands and rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "He won't let her go, is what I'm trying to say, Charity. Do you honestly think he will pass up this opportunity?"

"What opportunity, Raoul? What?" Raoul leans forward, crossing his arms. "What do you think you know, Viscount?"

"It's Count now, I'm afraid. They found Phillippe's body in the sewers. And it isn't what I _think_ I know, it's what I do know. Christine told me he wanted to move away with her, to a home he built just outside his hometown, Rouen. Without her, I expected him to either waste away under the opera house or vanish without a trace. But now he has a newly deformed," He catches Charity's devilish glare, "Sorry, but she is."

"I know, but it doesn't mean I appreciate it."

"Still, no matter how you feel, she is deformed now. She's young, bright, and even looked like him before she . . . got hurt. If you don't see the _opportunity_ available to Erik now, then you're blind." Charity and the Daroga share the same split second of realization. His mouth drops and her eyes pop open.

"That son of a _bitch_!"

#

It was two weeks before Alex woke up. His father was still, staring at the wall. His mother was holding Ashy, her eyes a dull brass, her face looking like a rash. When he leaned forward, he felt pain in the crook of his elbow. _An IV? That's weird._ He had only seen these in movies, ones Mom and Dad did not know he and Ashy were watching from the top of the stairs and gasping.

The second thing he felt was the itching all over his face. That was strange, and very uncomfortable. _Why does my face itch so much?_ He raised a hand to touch the irritation only to have his fat fingers blocked by a rough, slightly damp cloth between them and his face.

He then realized his ride down the hill with Ashy did not go as planned.

#

Erik notices the young woman staring into the fireplace, cross-legged on the floor, arms resting on her legs, barely blinking, lightly breathing. She has healed remarkably fast, though that might be purely her own stubbornness, as it seem to always have an effect. Just two weeks after her little "accident", and the bandages on her face are no longer needed. That is good, he feels, because he has been working on something for her, and it is nearly complete. Still, the total lack of socialization between the two of them is becoming a nuisance. He clears his throat to get her attention.

"Ashton, are you alright? You haven't spoken in days."

". . . haven't had anything to talk about."

"Have you been paying attention to our lessons, then? I would hate for you to die trying to get from a booth to the cellars." _Especially considering we went over the map_ seven times _!_

"Yes, Ghost, I have. I've been studying the schematics every night. I've also been practicing throwing my voice, but, I can't get the hang of it. I find your notes to be more effective." She rakes her fingers through her hair, sparse and course, and lets out a breath.

"You can call me by my name, you know." Erik smile, though she cannot see.

"No, I can't." Is all he gets.

Erik's face falls a bit. He had hoped that, maybe, she would have warmed up to him by now, especially after telling him what happened to her little brother. But, it seems, that there is a larger barrier between them that, he feels, he constructed himself. Erik starts to turn when a sharp pain penetrates his chest. It moves to his arm for a moment before vanishing.

 _Odd . . ._ He blinks a few times, still holding on to his shirt, and shakes his head. That was not a good sign, he decides, and leaves Ashton to her daydream session. _Something is not right_.

#

Hiding her morning sickness from the Ghost is becoming more and more difficult. The man believes in rising early, though she doubts he sleeps at all, and most everything he cooks is very fragrant. His meals are delicious, even though he does not eat much, yet with a smell strong enough to seen her running to the toilet as soon as they finish.

She thinks she has him believing that she is a very "regular" person bathroom wise, but she knows the charade can only last for so long. She estimates that she is two months pregnant, and with that knowledge she fears eating too much, or too little. And god, if she starts to show, if her belly starts to protrude.

The Ghost might not like the idea of her having his child. If she had been honest with him up front, perhaps, but not after lying to him, and especially not after her psychotic break with the lighter. She watches the flames dance as she goes through different lullabies her mother would sing in her head. Her personal favorite was when Mama would sing "Baby Mine" from _Dumbo_. Dumbo was her favorite Disney movie, and Mama would watch it over and over, and she would hold Ash close during the "Baby Mine" sequence, and whisper "I'll never let you go" to the small child.

 _Stop. Just stop. Don't remind yourself of them. You can't keep doing this to yourself_.

"Ashton? Ashton, get dressed. There is someone I would like you to meet."

She stands, adjusts the bandages, and slips away to her room. Christine's old Louis-Philippe room, to be specific. The Ghost seems rather unusually content with the idea, or rather the fact, that Christine will never return to him. During her near comatose time, he completely removed anything that Christine used and redecorated with dark furniture.

Ash finds herself matching the color scheme of the room when she puts on her red velvet "Mephistopheles" suit. She uses a black scarf to hide her deformity, wrapping around her neck first and looping around her face. Satisfied with her clothing, she slides a cape on and meets the Ghost at the front door.

#

Laurel stands on her normal street, in her typical garb, partaking in the profession that a very kind young man attempted to save her from. Her family was far from happy to see her. They cursed her, called her a whore more times than she could count at once. He gave her enough for her to live for a long while, but she needed more funds, and the young man had not been around in a long time.

And of course, her best client, the masked man Erik, had vanished off the face of the earth. Until tonight.

"Ah, there you are." He takes her hand and lifts if to the lips of his mask. "It has been quite a long time, and I am sorry for that."

"It's no trouble _monsieur_. I had begun to be worried, actually." He chuckles.

"Well, worry no more. There is someone I want you to meet, my dear." He sweeps to the side and familiar pair of eyes meets hers with the same level of shock in them. "Laurel, this is . . ."

"Ashton?" She steps forward and, yes, even underneath the black hiding the majority of his face, it is him. The young man who tried to save her, who told her that Erik was not to be trusted wholly. His shaky hand stops hers from touching his face, and their fingers entwine.

"Laurel? Wha-what are you . . .?" Erik lets out a cough.

"I take it you two have already met?"


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

Typically, the word "unexpected" is rather strong in meaning, but at this particular moment it is not enough to describe the emotion that hit Erik when Laurel and Ashton recognized each other. As far as he knew, the young woman had been faithful to her young "bride", and truly loved her in one way or another. So, why would she risk even more scandal by knowing Laurel in any form?

He watches Ashton recompose herself after freeing her hand from Laurel's. As for the young _working_ girl, she starts to primp as best and casually as she can. He smiles under his mask, realizing that Ashton's male guise worked so well she got this young woman to be flustered by her. And yet . . . and yet he spies a similar reaction in Ashton. Less primping and preening, more of a _masculine_ approach. She is widening her stance, crossing her arms, raising her head.

 _She is trying to appear dominant,_ Erik thinks as his eyes widen. _Oh my . . . this is interesting_.

"Yes, Ghost, we _have_ met, once. The night of the masquerade. I wasn't allowed to attend, remember?" The tone in Ashton's voice reeks of arrogance, but he can ignore it due to the depth she added to her voice. She is trying so hard to seem in control of the situation. It is almost as if she fears embarrassing herself in front of Laurel, who continues to stand and say nothing. She cannot stop staring at Ashton. Ashton's eyes begin to glow in the strangest manner.

 _This is_ very _interesting_.

#

Charity is bent over in her armchair, face in her knees. It has been two weeks since Raoul gave his revelation, one week since she moved in with him, and five days since she left her new room. She still does not know why the Daroga did not want her at his apartment anymore, but she cannot focus on that now. She can barely focus on Christine, who is watching her with near maternal concern in her eyes.

"Charity, are you going to speak to me?"

Nothing.

Charity watches Christine become more and more uncomfortable with her counterpart sitting in silence. Her fault, all her fault. She had to be a ballerina. She _had_ to stay at the opera house. Ash pretended to be a man for her, and now . . . now she will have to be one forever. Be the Phantom for the rest of her life.

 _My fault . . . all my fault . . ._

"Charity, what are you thinking? Are . . . are you certain Ashton is safe with Erik? If he discovers that she is a woman . . . I do not even want to _fathom_ . . ."

"He won't touch her," Charity breathes. "Not after she starts to show . . . should be soon, with her weight." Charity smirks at Christine's stunned silence. She seems to forget that Ash's pregnancy is still hidden from a majority of their companions, but Christine . . . Christine _knows_ what Charity means. Charity can tell by Christine's paling face that the news is not all that shocking to the singer. "Christine, what are _you_ thinking?" She leans forward.

"I have a bit of a story to tell you, Charity."

#

She listened to Erik's muttering for weeks, and had grown accustomed to it. During supper, they would talk and talk, about everything and nothing. Truth be told, it was almost like having Papa Gustative alive and well again. He and Erik would have talked about different styles of violins for hours, she just knew it.

She could hear him talk to himself during the night, though it was faint in her Louis-Philippe room at the opposite end of the house. Curiosity always getting the best of her, she would crawl to his doorway and sit against the wall. She could hear him perfectly from there, and learned many things.

The Persian actually had a name, Firuz Amirmoez, though, as she would observe later on, his manservant, Darius, could not pronounce his master's surname to save his life. To Darius, Mister Amirmoez was simply "Master".

She also discovered that Erik had a younger brother, Anthony, to who portion of his salary would be go annually. Almost daily, she would wonder what this man would look like, and pray that Erik's deformity was not a dominant trait. His eyes, however, would be the perfect gene to pass on to the generations.

On the night before the unmasking of her former angel, Christine heard him sobbing. His words were hard to understand, but his point got across without any difficulty, and she found herself almost unable to hold her own tears back.

He had received a letter earlier in the day, and only now was he reading the contents.

His only child, a daughter all the way in Persia, had passed away attempting to birth her first child. They named the boy Nazir in the few moments of his life, and the two were laid to rest together. She could tell he was close to breaking that night, his angelic voice coming out in painful wails and pitiful cries. He whispered about her perfect face, her skin brown like her mother's, and her eyes a rare blue-hazel.

Akasha was all he wanted, a child free of his hideousness, and the ability to pass on his bloodline directly. He lamented about how difficult it was to find a woman who wanted to be with him, and how he was eternally grateful toward Akasha's mother for letting him know everything, from the moment she was born to her death. And now . . . he had no bloodline, no child, no true legacy.

He wanted to leave something _meaningful_ behind. A child was it.

#

Almost a month with no more than two hours of sleep a night is not healthy, no matter the physical condition of your body. Ash cannot bring herself to lay down, to rest her head. Her hands start to twitch, her torso to itch. She paces, she draws, she sings, she curses. Her floor is covered in finished and half-finished sketches and portraits, the piano in the corner has keys practically splattered in paint from the nights she goes from painting to playing and back again.

The Ghost does not seem to mind, this room went from Christine's to hers in no time flat, the color palate darkening and the wardrobe being completely replaced. It seems to her that, as long as it remains in the confines of her room, he does not give a damn what she does.

That is why the burns on her arms have not healed as fast as he anticipated. The letter opener does exactly what her old razor used to, and she is pleased with the results. Charity would kill her if she could see what Ash had done to herself. They had dealt with this for years, and they both knew only a miracle or a tragedy would stop her from relapsing.

Satisfied with the crimson beads running down her arms, Ash crawls into bed and almost passes out, physically and mentally exhausted.

It is not long before she is not alone anymore. And her visitor is heartbroken by what they see.

#

Christine is surprised by Charity's calm reaction to learning of Erik's familial struggles. Then again, absolutely nothing about this young woman has been what Christine expected from her, so really, she is not as surprised as she is afraid.

Calm is not always the best reaction to difficult news. Calm, after all, is what leads to a storm. And Christine could see a typhoon brewing behind Charity's eyes. Charity lets out a breath and stands. Christine opens her mouth to speak, but Charity's raised hand silences her.

"Erik must never learn that Ash is pregnant. He may already be aware that she is a woman, but if he finds out that her weak body and fragile mind is carrying his child . . ."

"He could finally break."

"Exactly."

#

Always by his side, Alex knew that he could always rely on Ashy to keep him safe. Be his guardian angel. Though they could not afford to fix his face, he knew his family's love for him did not lessen, and he was a happy child.

Then the men in the masks came.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

He hid behind Daddy, holding onto his back while the men in the masks plundered the house. He could see the concentration on Daddy's face as they stayed still, crouched behind the railing of the upstairs loft. Daddy's forehead was coated in sweat, and Alex was afraid to ask him what the men wanted.

It seemed odd to him that Papaw Richard's coin collection was the first to go.

"Alex, I want you to listen very carefully, okay?" Daddy turned and grabbed Alex by the shoulders. "Your sister is in bed. I want you to go to her room and tell her there are strange men in the house. She'll know what to do."

"Oh-okay, Daddy," Alex nodded rubbing his upper lip.

"Be careful. I love you, little ghost." He kissed Alex's forehead, and the young boy crawled down the hall to Ashy's bedroom. Leaning against the door, he listened to Ashy's slow, shallow breathing. She would be so mad at him for waking her up, he just knew it, but at the moment he did not care. He opened the door slowly.

#

He is afraid to touch the bleeding arms of his young apprentice. If she continues this behavior, punishment will be carried out, but for now he just stands, waits and watches. He can remember when that was his favorite pastime, back when he was working for the Romani travelers. The weight of the situation makes him sink to his knees and clutch his left breast tightly. It becomes difficult for him to catch his breath. He remembers how close he came one night to bleeding out before a live audience. The only reason he survived was because the Romani needed him alive, and a death before hundreds of people would not be the publicity they needed to procure funds.

They were kind to him, worried and gentle. They were such lovely people yet being with them made him feel less like a man and more like an attraction.

It is in this moment Erik comes to the conclusion that this demented young woman will not die by her own hands. If her plan was to slip away into the night and simply be gone, she failed. Her steady breathing rouses Erik from his dissociative stare and he rises. He will need antiseptic, and bandages, and some whisky. After all this, he could use a strong drink.

He glides from the room, further ignoring the throbbing pain in his arm.

#

Firuz decided two weeks was long enough to go without seeing Erik and his young _prisoner_. Charity is spending the day with Mademoiselle Daaé, shopping and such. Though, he must admit, their hushed talking the moment they left his flat had him wondering. However, he cannot become distracted. It would put his mind at ease to see Ashton alive and well. Or even alive and unwell, so Erik would be forced to care for her.

So long as her heart is beating, he is satisfied. And so will Charity, he prays.

He ignores the sideways glances and sneers of disapproval. Walking tall, with determination in his stride, he makes it to the Rue Scribe within the quarter hour ( _That's half my usual time_ ), and descends into Erik's labyrinth.

#

He finds himself unable to knock upon the front door of the lake house. Something is wrong, Firuz knows it. A chill crawls up his spine when his hand makes contact with the crystal handle. Not knowing what to expect, he turns the knob and pushes the door open. To his amazement, the house is quiet. Typically, Erik is playing away on the organ in the music room, or pacing with his violin in the parlor. Yet the parlor is empty, save a small black kitten sleeping on the armchair. He does not recall Erik housing a cat.

He lets out a huff and the kitten squeaks at him.

Rubbing his beard, he makes is way out of the parlor and into Erik's dining room. Empty. The kitchen as well, though, truth be told, he did not expect to see him there. The man's eating habits, or rather the lack of the habit, would be the death of him, Firuz was sure of it. He goes back into the hallway and considers his choices.

Erik's bedroom is at the end of the hall, the door draped in red curtains. While seeing Erik is a priority, it is not the topmost. There is a powder room between the dining room and the music room, but he seriously doubts anyone could be in there without his knowing. Then realization slaps him.

The Louis-Philippe room, otherwise known to him as the passage to that damned mirror room, that was once Christine's living chambers. He imagines that Ashton calls that room home now, considering the poor girl is Erik's "apprentice" or whatever the hell he has coerced her to be. She may be sleeping; she may be reading or getting dressed. She certainly is not bathing, he would have heard the water flowing.

Without further hesitation, he rushes the room.

" _'_ _iihy! 'iirik, 'ashtun!_ " He leans down to Erik's still, barely breathing body as he worriedly watches Ashton's slowly bleeding arms. He pulls Erik onto his lap and turns the large man over, seeing no blood on his sleeves or chest. Firuz immediately eliminates the hypothesis of a confrontation gone wrong. So why is the young woman bleeding? Why is Erik unconscious?

Firuz is about to yell to his god for answers when he feels Erik's heart beat irregularly. He often forgets that Erik, despite his lack of maturity, is a good six years his senior. After all these years, is it finally giving out? He pats his friend's cheek gently, prodding at the sharp cheek with the tips of his fingers.

Slowly but surely, Erik's eyes creak open.

"D . . . Daroga? What's happened?"

"I came to see how you and Mister Knight were getting along and, well, you were collapsed. And . . . and Ashton." He raises his hand and points. "What in the name of god happened, Erik?" He shakes his head, lifting himself onto his forearms to get a better look at the figure on the bed.

"They've stopped bleeding. Help me, Daroga. We must . . ." He seems to lose his breath, "we must clean the wounds. Prevent infection." He seems panicked, pulling up on Firuz's shoulders for support. The Persian man helps Erik up, brows cocked in confusion.

Erik has never been this concerned over another human being. Well, not since that one harem girl who did not scream at his face. He forgot her name long ago. Feeling his body move without him, Firuz blinks rapidly and pays attention to his hand and, the damp cloth within it.

He wonders how much time has passed since he zoned out, though he does not linger on the thought. Cleaning Ashton's cuts is his current priority. That and glancing up at Erik, him busily caring for the woman's other arm. He is muttering, which is never a good sign. Something is worrying him, and unless Erik knows something Firuz does not, he can only assume Erik's concern is for losing a legacy and not the person herself.

Then the words _child_ and _pregnancy_ slips their way into Firuz's ear, and his bitter curiosity becomes sheer panic. He fights to steady his hands and hide all outward signs of having heard his old friend. Still, he cannot stop his dark skin from flushing near white, and his mind from wandering to strange, unholy places.

 _By Allah, what did he_ do _?_

#

A voice in the darkness, soft and smooth and cool, captures her attention from a deep and engulfing void. How long has she been here? An hour? Two? A week? Hell if she knows. Time has no meaning here. I pinhead of light appears in the distance. Her mind fights against the urge to go toward it, but something within her fights against it. She runs to it, the voice getting louder. It is too late for her to turn back by the time she realizes just _who_ the voice belongs to.

Ash opens her eyes slowly, feeling a hand in hers, shaking violently, the Ghost's voice nothing more than a hushed whisper in her right ear. Something moves to her left, and her head turns toward it instinctively. The Daroga jumps in his seat.

"You're awake," he whispers looking over toward the Ghost. "We were worried. Erik especially. I don't know what happened here, young Knight, but whatever it was it turned Erik into an emotional _mess_. Just look at him."

"How long . . . have I been out?" Her voice was hoarse, her throat like sandpaper, mouth like a desert. The Daroga leans back, eyes closed and lips pursed. He takes a solid minute to think, and then leans forward.

"Five hours, not counting how long you and Erik were unconscious when I arrived."

"Erik?"

"Yes. He was collapsed on the floor. He fell asleep just moments ago."

"Singing . . ."

"He talks in his sleep, singing isn't a far stretch. Here," he takes pillows from the ground and lifts her up, "Sit up a bit. We had to remove all your bandages to clean the sores that opened on your torso. Do you not care for them regularly, Ashton?"

"Forget . . ."

"That is not something to forget Misssss _ter_ Knight." He glances over her at the sleeping ghost, face flushed from the near catastrophic error he nearly made. _Yes, like the Ghost won't_ possibly _hear that. He's probably faking sleep_. The Daroga claps his hands together lightly and stands. "We'll wrap them up in a while, the wounds need to air out a bit, and your arms need to relax." He makes his way to the vanity taking something in his hand and turning around.

"Where did . . .?"

"I found it in the power room, hidden poorly within the vanity. I'm in awe that Erik did not find it first. I was unsure of what this device was, it's material is foreign to me, as are the symbols. However, something Erik said earlier . . . I drew a conclusion. Humor me, if you will." He puts the pregnancy test in his pocket and holds up a finger, "one moment, child.

He tiptoes over to his friend, whispering in his ear and walking the exhausted specter out of the room. Ash tries to collect her thoughts, taking in deep breaths, closing her eyes. She listens to the Daroga close the door and walk to the Ghost's former chair. She turns her face away from him, warm touching her unscathed cheek and turning her back.

"I don't want to think the worst, I really don't. Erik never struck me as a . . . he's not a monster, not in that aspect. If he _made_ you do anything."

"It's not like that," Ash finds her voice. "He never touched me. I'm not entirely sure he knows that I'm . . . it was a deal we made. Safety for Charity was his offer, in exchange for . . . a _child_. He wanted Charity to carry the child, and gave us the means to create it . . ." She hears gasps, frightened breathing. The chair creaks, his footfalls are heavy and slow. Even she has not come to full terms with the situation. But she cannot stop, he has to know.

"Charity told me that . . . she would, if she could. But, Charity is . . . _infertile_."

"Dearest lord," The harsh whisper is met with a soft press on her bare stomach. "So . . . so now . . . _you're._ "

"Yes."

#

The door was usually quiet when he opened it. Finding himself on his hands and knees, Alex crawled as fast as he could, tears blurring his vision as he avoids Ashy's strewn clothing, books and CDs. The bed is a bit higher than he is, and he pulled himself up to her messy blankets and peaceful form.

"Ashy? Ashy!" He grabbed at her tee-shirt, letting himself fall on his rear so she can be pulled over to the edge of the bed. She groaned, flipped over and hissed a " _What!?"_ in his direction. "Men. Bad men, Ashy . . . in masks." She wasn't even looking at him, she was looking over him, her black curls wild over her face. Her eyes, normally warm brass, shine bright yellow. She reaches for him, voice shaking.

"Al—Alex!"

Something grips his shirt, and yanks him back, _hard._

"Jesus _Christ_ , look at the face on this thing!"


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: #NotDead. Sorry it isn't very long, I'm a tad rusty. Now, back to our irregularly scheduled chaos.**

 **~ Charles Addams**

 **Chapter Sixteen**

"Do you think she'll have a boy or a girl?" Christine asks shoving a mint green and pastel pink colored bunch of cloth against Charity's chest. She has to rush and catch them before Christine hops her way to another section of the baby boutique.

"Knowing Ash, it won't be anything," Charity holds up one of the four infant nightgowns that Christine has laid in her arms. "Her family has this weird pattern with children. Either they're _born_ defective or they _become_ defective. Not saying a baby without genitals is 'defective', but . . ." Charity stops her rambling after seeing the slightly judgmental look on Christine's face. "What?"

"Did you seriously just call Ashton defective?"

"Uh . . . I suppose I did. That sounded horrible, didn't it?" She waves her hand dismissively. "Whatever you want to call it, her family has a history of strange things happening to them, from mundane oddities to the plain _freakish_." Christine places her hands on her hips.

"Charity!"

"I wasn't calling _her_ a freak. I was just making a statement." Charity and Christine examine a white crib for a moment. "Even if we were at home, something would have happened to her. What with her mother's death, her mental health worsening . . ."

"And now she has a child to add to her _repertoire_ of problems," Christine remarks with a flip of her hair and a childish smile. Then her mood falls. "What will she do with the child? Erik won't . . . he isn't exactly prepared to be a father, after all. And Ashton . . ."

"We haven't discussed it yet. We have seven months to ready ourselves for this." She holds up a small wintergreen colored bonnet. "This is adorable."

"Yes, it is," Christine remarks, "but don't change the subject, Charity. She can't hide her pregnancy forever." Charity lets out a sigh, feeling her lips and shoulders tremble. "Charity?"

"I know she can't. I've been thinking about it non-stop for the past week. But, unless she starts to show _tomorrow_ , I think everything is going to be all right. Time is on our side." Christine blinks, reaching out and gripping Charity's shoulder so tight she fears it will bleed.

"What do you mean by that?"

#

He rubs the tips of his fingers gently with his thumb. How long have they been this calloused? He can faintly remember them being soft, with a pink tinge to them. Hell, he can remember having a, still pale, but more typical shade to his skin. He can remember having the sun beating on them as he worked for the Italian architect, and again in Persia, for the little Sultana. That perverted bitch. He hopes someone slit her throat after his disappearance.

Refusing to look into the vanity mirror, Erik tightens his robe and slinks to the bedroom door. Firuz left an hour ago, and the young Knight (after eating something, because dear God she was shaking like a beaten dog), finally settled in her room with an extra blanket for warmth. Erik also made doubly sure there were no cutting implements within the chamber.

He hates seeing himself in that wretched girl. He hates that every bone in his body feels protective of her. She is an insulting, arrogant, brash little minx. Yet no matter how much he tries to hate her, like he did before the accident, before learning the truth, he cannot bring himself to. Opening the door wide, he makes his way into the music room before it has time to latch behind him.

He needs alone time, and to relax. What better way to relax than to play some Chopin on the grand piano? Well, he could think of _one_ better way. At this moment in time, soberness is a requirement, so the bottle of whisky would have to wait a while. He lights a candle and carries it over to the grand piano, its dark wood reflecting the warm glow. Erik cannot remember the last time he played just on a whim. He played Mozart for Christine, and occasionally Beethoven for Firuz, when he was not being such a booby.

This _Nocturne_ , however, is for himself. He takes the music from inside the bench and places it gently on the stand. His fingers, calloused and cracked as they may be, still moved like they did in his youth across the ivory. He closes his eyes, knowing the piece by heart, seeing his mother, sitting beside him, listening happily. He looks at her, skin perfect, nose hooked, like his father's, but existing, eyes a more natural green like Madeline's.

"Your teacher must be very proud, James."

"Indeed he is, Mother," he would smile, and turn his head back to the piano. "Maestro says I'll be playing opera before I hit thirty." His hands fly across the keyboard as his foot taps out the time. Madeline starts to vocalize with the music, her hand lovingly touching his shoulder. She ruffles his hair and kisses his cheek.

"I believe he is right, my master pianist." She stands. "Don't play too long into the night; else you won't wake in time for school tomorrow." He hears her footfalls leave the room.

Then he hears a sharp scream.

Erik's head shoots up from the piano, gasping and panting, grasping at his chest as something akin to lightening shoots up his arm, making his heart beat erratically. Tears fall from his eyes as he starts to pray. "No . . . not like this. Please, God, not like this!" He tries to stand, weeping as his body grows weaker and weaker.

Erik tries to walk to the door, his feet feeling like lead on the ground.

Erik tries to shout for help, but his lungs refuse to work.

Erik fights for his very life this night. Like he had since birth.

On this night, Erik finally loses.


	17. Author's Farewell

Hello Dearies,

As you may have guessed by the new username, I am going to leave FanFiction. "Fiery Angel" is not going in a direction I like, and I want to start fresh with it. In about a week, you'll be able to find it, and new stories, on Archive Of Our own under the pseudonym Charles_E_Wolfe, as well as TheHeathenPriest on Wattpad. The story's new title will be "The Pianist". I'll leave the original version on here for anyone to read if they desire, but if you wish to read the re-working head on over and check it out. I thank you all for you patience, truly I do, but I have to prioritize and write the best story that I can. Wish me luck, and thank you again.

~ Charles.


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